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B   I 


SEPTIM1US    FELTON 

OR 

The  Elixir  of  Life 

BY 

NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE 


BOSTON 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 
New  York:    11    East  Seventeenth  Street 

(Ctw  Rtoewi&e  press,  «Tamfcn&0e 


COPYRIGHT,  1871. 

BY  JAMES   R.  OSGOOD  &  CO. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.'  Houghton  &  Company. 


\  <t  n    . 

S  +1 
PEEFACE. 


|HE  following  story  is  the  last  written  by  my 
father.  It  is  printed  as  it  was  found  among  his 
manuscripts.  I  believe  it  is  a  striking  speci' 
men  of  the  peculiarities  and  charm  of  his  style,  and 
that  it  will  have  an  added  interest  for  brother  artists, 
and  for  those  who  care  to  study  the  method  of  his  com- 
position, from  the  mere  fact  of  its  not  having  received 
his  final  revision.  In  any  case,  I  feel  sure  that  the 
retention  of  the  passages  witliin  brackets  (e.  g.  p.  33), 
which  show  how  my  father  intended  to  amplify  some 
of  the  descriptions  and  develop  more  fully  one  or  two 
of  the  character  studies,  will  not  be  regretted  by  ap- 
preciative readers.  My  earnest  thanks  are  due  to  Mr. 
Robert  Browning  for  his  kind  assistance  and  advic° 
in  interpreting  the  manuscript,  otherwise  so  difficult 
to  me. 

UNA  HAWTHORNE. 


til   I 


SEPTIMIUS   FELTOST; 

OR,   THE   ELIXIR    OF   LIFE. 


]T  was  a  day  in  early  spring ;  and  as  that  sweet, 
genial  time  of  year  and  atmosphere  calls  out 
tender  greenness  from  the  ground,  —  beautiful 
flowers,  or  leaves  that  look  beautiful  because  so  long  un- 
seen under  the  snow  and  decay,  —  so  the  pleasant  air 
and  warmth  had  called  out  three  young  people,  who  sat 
on  a  sunny  hillside  enjoying  the  warm  day  and  one  an- 
other. For  they  were  all  friends :  two  of  them  young 
men,  and  playmates  from  boyhood ;  the  third,  a  girl  who, 
two  or  three  years  younger  than  themselves,  had  been  the 
object  of  their  boy-love,  their  little  rustic,  childish  gallan- 
tries, their  budding  affections  ;  until,  growing  all  towards 
manhood  and  womanhood,  they  had  ceased  to  talk  about 
sucli  matters,  perhaps  thinking  about  them  the  more. 

These  three  young  people  were  neighbors'  children, 
dwelling  in  houses  that  stood  by  the  side  of  the  great 
Lexington  road,  along  a  ridgy  hill  that  rose  abruptly 
behind  them,  its  brow  covered  with  a  wood,  and  which 


8  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

stretched,  with  one  or  two  breaks  and  interruptions,  into 
the  heart  of  the  village  of  Concord,  the  county  town. 
It  was  in  the  side  of  this  hill  that,  according  to  tradition, 
the  first  settlers  of  the  village  had  burrowed  iu  caverns 
which  they  had  dug  out  for  their  shelter,  like  swallows 
and  woodchucks.  As  its  slope  was  towards  the  south, 
and  its  ridge  and  crowning  woods  defended  them  from 
the  northern  blasts  and  snow-drifts,  it  was  an  admirable 
situation  for  the  fierce  New  England  winter;  and  the 
temperature  was  milder,  by  several  degrees,  along  this 
hillside  than  on  the  unprotected  plains,  or  by  the  river, 
or  in  any  other  part  of  Concord.  So  that  here,  during 
the  hundred  years  that  had  elapsed  since  the  first  settle- 
ment of  the  place,  dwellings  had  successively  risen  close 
to  the  hill's  foot,  and  the  meadow  that  lay  on  the  other 
side  of  the  road  —  a  fertile  tract  —  had  been  cultivated ; 
and  these  three  young  people  were  the  children's  chil- 
dren's children  of  persons  of  respectability  who  had  dwelt 
there,  —  Rose  Garfield,  in  a  small  house,  the  site  of  which 
is  still  indicated  by  the  cavity  of  a  cellar,  in  which  I  this 
very  past  summer  planted  some  sunflowers  to  thrust  their . 
great  disks  out  from  the  hollow  and  allure  the  bee  and 
the  humming-bird ;  Robert  Hagburn,  in  a  house  of  some- 
what more  pretension,  a  hundred  yards  or  so  nearer  to 
the  village,  standing  back  from  the  road  in  the  broader 
space  which  the  retreating  hill,  cloven  by  a  gap  in  that 
place,  afforded ;  where  some  elms  intervened  between  it 
and  the  road,  offering  a  site  which  some  person  of  a  nat- 
ural taste  for  the  gently  picturesque  had  seized  upon. 
Those  same  elms,  or  their  successors,  still  flung  a  noble 
shade  over  the  same  old  house,  which  the  magic  hand  of 


SEPTIMIUS    1'ELTON.  .  9 

Alcott  Las  improved  by  the  touch  that  throws  grace, 
amiableness,  and  natural  beauty  over  scenes  that  have 
little  pretension  iu  themselves. 

Now,  the  other  youug  man,  Septimius  Pelton,  dwelt 
in  a  small  wooden  house,  then,  I  suppose,  of  some  score 
of  years'  standing,  —  a  two-story  house,  gabled  before, 
but  with  only  two  rooms  on  a  floor,  crowded  upon  by 
the  hill  behind,  —  a  house  of  thick  walls,  as  if  the  pro- 
jector had  that  sturdy  feeling  of  permanence  in  life  which 
incites  people  to  make  strong  their  earthly  habitations, 
as  if  deluding  themselves  with  the  idea  that  they  could 
still  inhabit  them ;  in  short,  an  ordinary  dwelling  of  a 
well-to-do  New  England  farmer,  such  as  his  race  had 
been  for  two  or  three  generations  past,  although  there 
were  traditions  of  ancestors  who  had  led  lives  of  thought 
and  study,  and  possessed  all  the  erudition  that  the  uni- 
versities of  England  could  bestow.  Whether  any  natural 
turn  for  study  had  descended  to  Septimius  from  these 
worthies,  or  how  his  tendencies  came  to  be  different  from 
those  of  his  family,  —  who,  within  the  memory  of  the 
neighborhood,  had  been  content  to  sow  and  reap  the  rich 
field  in  front  of  their  homestead,  — so  it  was,  that  Septim- 
ius had  early  manifested  a  taste  for  study.  By  the  kind 
aid  of  the  good  minister  of  the  town  he  had  been  fitted 
for  college  ;  had  passed  through  Cambridge  by  means  of 
what  little  money  his  father  had  left  him  and  by  his  own 
exertions  in  school-keeping ;  and  was  now  a  recently  dec- 
orated baccalaureate,  with,  as  was  understood,  a  purpose 
to  devote  himself  to  the  ministry,  under  the  auspices  of 
that  reverend  and  good  friend  whose  support  and  instruc- 
tion had  already  stood  him  iu  such  stead. 
1* 


10  SBPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

Now  here  were  these  young  people,  on  that  beautiful 
spring  morning,  sitting  on  the  hillside,  a  pleasant  specta- 
cle of  fresh  life,  —  pleasant,  as  if  they  had  sprouted  like 
green  things  under  the  influence  of  the  warm  sun.  The 
girl  was  very  pretty,  a  little  freckled,  a  little  tanned,  but 
with  a  face  that  glimmered  and  gleamed  with  quick  and 
cheerful  expressions;  a  slender  form,  not  very  large, 
with  a  quick  grace  in  its  movements ;  sunny  hair  that  had 
a  tendency  to  curl,  which  she  probably  favored  at  such 
moments  as  her  household  occupation  left  her ;  a  sociable 
and  pleasant  child,  as  both  of  the  young  men  evidently 
thought.  Robert  Hagburn,  one  might  suppose,  would 
have  been  the  most  to  her  taste ;  a  ruddy,  burly  young 
fellow,  handsome,  and  free  of  manner,  six  feet  high,  fa- 
mous through  the  neighborhood  for  strength  and  athletic 
skill,  the  early  promise  of  what  was  to  be  a  man  fit  for 
all  offices  of  active  rural  life,  and  to  be,  in  mature  age, 
the  selectman,  the  deacon,  the  representative,  the  colonel. 
As  for  Septimius,  let  him  alone  a  moment  or  two,  and 
then  they  would  see  him,  with  his  head  bent  down, 
brooding,  brooding,  his  eyes  fixed  on  some  chip,  some 
stone,~some  common  plant,  any  commonest  thing,  as  if  it 
were  the  clew  and  index  to  some  mystery ;  and  when,  by 
chance  startled  out  of  these  meditations,  he  lifted  his 
eyes,  there  would  be  a  kind  of  perplexity,  a  dissatisfied, 
foiled  look  in  them,  as  if  of  his  speculations  he  found  no 
end.  Such  was  now  the  case,  while  Robert  and  the  girl 
were  running  on  with  a  gay  talk  about  a  serious  subject, 
so  that,  gay  as  it  was,  it  was  interspersed  with  little 
thrills  of  fear  on  the  girl's  part,  of  excitement  on  Rob- 
ert's. Their  talk  was  of  public  trouble. 


SEPTIAIIUS    FELTON.  11 

"My  grandfather  says,"  said  Rose  Garfield,  "that 
we  shall  never  be  able  to  stand  against  old  England, 
because  the  men  are  a  weaker  race  than  he  remembers 
in  his  day,  —  weaker  than  his  father,  who  came  from 
England,  —  and  the  women  slighter  still ;  so  that  we 
are  dwindling  away,  grandfather  thinks ;  only  a  little 
sprightlier,  he  says  sometimes,  looking  at  me." 

"  Lighter,  to  be  sure,"  said  Robert  Hagburn  ;  "  there 
is  the  lightness  of  the  Englishwomen  compressed  into 
little  space.  I  have  seen  them  and  know.  And  as 
to  the  men,  Rose,  if  they  have  lost  one  spark  of  courage 
and  strength  that  their  English  forefathers  brought  from 
the  old  land,  —  lost  any  one  good  quality  without  having 
made  it  up  by  as  good  or  better,  —  then,  for  my  part,  I 
don't  want  the  breed  to  exist  any  longer.  And  this  war, 
that  they  say  is  coming  on,  will  be  a  good  opportunity 
to  test  the  matter.  Septimius  !  don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"Think  what?  "asked  Septimius,  gravely,  lifting  up 
his  head. 

"  Think  !  why,  that  your  countrymen  are  worthy  to 
live,"  said  Robert  Hagburn,  impatiently.  "  For  there  is 
a  question  on  that  point." 

"  It  is  hardly  worth  answering  or  considering,"  said 
Septimius,  looking  at  him  thoughtfully.  "We  live  so 
little  while,  that  (always  setting  aside  the  effect  on  a 
future  existence)  it  is  little  matter  Whether  we  live 
or  no." 

"  Little  matter  !  "  said  Rose,  at  first  bewildered,  then 
laughing,  —  "  little  matter  !  when  it  is  such  a  comfort  to 
live,  so  pleasant,  so  sweet !  " 

"Yes,  and  so  many  things  to  do,"  said  Robert;  "to 


12  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

make  fields  yield  produce ;  to  be  busy  among  men,  aud 
happy  among  the  women-folk  ;  to  play,  work,  fight,  aud 
be  active  in  many  ways." 

"Yes;  but  so  soon  stilled,  before  your  activity  has 
come  to  any  definite  end,"  responded  Septimius,  gloom- 
ily. "  I  doubt,  if  it  had  been  left  to  my  choice,  whether 
I  should  have  taken  existence  on  such  terms ;  so  much 
trouble  of  preparation  to  live,  and  then  no  life  at  all ;  a 
ponderous  beginning,  and  nothing  more." 

"  Do  you  find  fault  with  Providence,  Septimius  ?  " 
asked  Rose,  a  feeling  of  solemnity  coming  over  her 
cheerful  and  buoyant  nature.  Then  she  burst  out 
a-laughing.  "How  grave  he  looks,  Robert;  as  if  he 
had  lived  two  or  three  lives  already,  and  knew  all  about 
the  value  of  it.  But  I  think  it  was  worth  while  to  be 
born,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  one  such  pleasant  spring 
morning  as  this;  and  God  gives  us  many  and  better 
things  when  these  are  past." 

"  We  hope  so,"  said  Septimius,  who  was  again  look- 
ing on  the  ground.  "  But  who  knows  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  knew,"  said  Robert  Hagburn.  "  You 
have  been  to  colkge,  and  have  learned,  no  doubt,  a  great 
many  things.  You  are  a  student  of  theology,  too,  and 
have  looked  into  these  matters.  Who  should  know,  if 
not  you  ? " 

"  Rose  and  you  have  just  as  good  means  of  ascertain- 
ing these  points  as  I,"  said  Septimius ;  "  all  the  certainty 
that  can  be  had  lies  on  the  surface,  as  it  should,  and 
equally  accessible  to  every  man  or  woman.  If  we  try  to 
grope  deeper,  we  labor  for  naught,  and  get  less  wise 
while  we  try  to  be  more  so.  If  life  were  long  enough  to 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  13 

enable  us  thoroughly  to  sift  these  matters,  then,  indeed  ! 
—  but  it  is  so  short ! " 

"  Always  this  same  complaint,"  said  Robert.  "  Sep- 
timius,  how  long  do  you  wish  to  live  ?  " 

"  Forever !  "  said  Septimius.  "  It  is  none  too  long  for 
all  I  wish  to  know." 

"Forever?"  exclaimed  Rose,  shivering  doubtfully. 
"  Ah,  there  would  come  many,  many  thoughts,  and  after 
a  while  we  should  want  a  little  rest." 

"  Forever  ?  "  said  Robert  Hagburn.  "  And  what 
would  the  people  do  who  wish  to  fill  our  places  ?  You 
are  unfair,  Septimius.  Live  and  let  live  !  Turn  about ! 
Give  me  my  seventy  years,  and  let  me  go,  —  my  seventy 
years  of  what  this  life  has,  —  toil,  enjoyment,  suffering, 
struggle,  fight,  rest,  —  only  let  me  have  my  share  of 
what 's  going,  and  I  shall  be  content." 

"  Content  with  leaving  everything  at  odd  ends ;  con- 
tent with  being  nothing,  as  you  were  before  !  " 

"  No,  Septimius,  content  with  heaven  at  last,"  said 
Rose,  who  had  come  out  of  her  laughing  mood  into  a 
sweet  seriousness.  "  0  dear  !  think  what  a  worn  and 
ugly  thing  one  of  these  fresh  little  blades  of  grass  would 
seem  if  it  were  not  to  fade  and  wither  in  its  time,  after 
being  green  in  its  time." 

"  Well,  well,  my  pretty  Rose,"  said  Septimius  apart, 
"  an  immortal  weed  is  not  very  lovely  to  think  of,  that  is 
true ;  but  I  should  be  content  with  one  thing,  and  that 
is  yourself,  if  you  were  immortal,  just  as  you  are  at 
seventeen,  so  fresh,  so  dewy,  so  red-lipped,  so  golden- 
haired,  so  gay,  so  frolicsome,  so  gentle." 

"But  I  am  to  grow  old,  and  to  be  brown  and  wrin- 


14  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

kled,  gray-haired  and  ugly,"  said  Rose,  rather  sadly,  as 
she  thus  enumerated  the  items  of  her  decay,  "  and  then 
you  would  think  me  all  lost  and  gone.  But  still  there 
might  be  youth  underneath,  for  one  that  really  loved  me 
to  see.  Ah,  Septimius  Felton !  such  love  as  would  see 
with  ever-new  eyes  is  the  true  love."  And  she  ran  away 
and  left  him  suddenly,  and  Robert  Hagbura  departing  at 
the  same  time,  this  little  knot  of  three  was  dissolved,  and 
Septimius  went  along  the  wayside  wall,  thoughtfully,  as 
was  his  wont,  to  his  own  dwelling.  He  had  stopped  for 
some  moments  on  the  threshold,  vaguely  enjoying,  it  is 
probable,  the  light  and  warmth  of  the  new  spring  day 
and  the  sweet  air,  which  was  somewhat  unwonted  to  the 
young  man,  because  he  was  accustomed  to  spend  much 
of  his  day  in  thought  and  study  within  doors,  and,  in- 
deed, like  most  studious  young  men,  was  overfond  of  the 
fireside,  and  of  making  life  as  artificial  as  he  could,  by 
fireside  heat  and  lamplight,  in  order  to  suit  it  to  the  arti- 
ficial, intellectual,  and  moral  atmosphere  which  he  derived 
from  books,  instead  of  living  healthfully  in  the  open  air, 
and  among  his  fellow-beings.  Still  he  felt  the  pleasure  of 
being  warmed  through  by  this  natural  heat,  and  though 
blinking  a  little  from  its  superfluity,  could  not  but  confess 
an  enjoyment  and  cheerfulness  in  this  flood  of  morning 
light  that  came  aslant  the  hillside.  While  he  thus  stood, 
he  felt  a  friendly  hand  laid  upon  his  shoulder,  and  look- 
ing up,  there  was  the  minister  of  the  village,  the  old 
friend  of  Septimius,  to  whose  advice  and  aid  it  was  owing 
that  Septimius  had  followed  his  instincts  by  going  to  col- 
lege,  instead  of  spending  a  thwarted  and  dissatisfied  life 
in  the  field  that  fronted  the  house.  He  was  a  man  of 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  15 

middle  age,  or  little  beyond,  of  a  sagacious,  kindly  as- 
pect ;  the  experience,  the  lifelong,  intimate  acquaintance 
with  many  concerns  of  his  people  being  more  appar- 
ent in  him  than'  the  scholarship  for  which  he  had  been 
early  distinguished.  A  tanned  man,  like  one  who  labored 
in  his  own  grounds  occasionally  ;  a  man  of  homely,  plain 
address,  which,  when  occasion  called  for  it,  he  could 
readily  exchange  for  the  polished  manner  of  one  who  had 
seen  a  more  refined  world  than  this  about  him. 

"  Well,  Septimius,"  said  the  minister,  kindly,  "  have 
you  yet  come  to  any  conclusion  about  the  subject  of 
which  we  have  been  talking  ?  " 

"Only  so  far,  sir,"  replied  Septimius,  "that  I  find 
myself  every  day  less  inclined  to  take  up  the  profession 
which  I  have  had  in  view  so  many  years.  I  do  not  think 
myself  fit  for  the  sacred  desk." 

"  Surely  not ;  no  one  is,"  replied  the  clergyman ;  "  but 
if  I  may  trust  my  own  judgment,  you  have  at  least  many 
of  the  intellectual  qualifications  that  should  adapt  you  to 
it.  There  is  something  of  the  Puritan  character  in  you, 
Septimius,  derived  from  holy  men  among  your  ancestors  ; 
as,  for  instance,  a  deep,  brooding  tum,  such  as  befits 
that  heavy  brow;  a  disposition  to  meditate  on  things 
hidden ;  a  turn  for  meditative  inquiry ;  —  all  these  things, 
with  grace  to  boot,  mark  you  as  the  germ  of  a  man  who 
might,  do  God  service.  Your  reputation  as  a  scholar 
stands  high  at  college.  You  have  not  a  turn  for  worldly 
business." 

"Ah,  but,  sir,"  said  Septimius,  casting  down  his  heavy 
brows,  "  I  lack  something  within." 

"  Faith,  perhaps,"  replied  the  minister ;  "  at  least,  you 
think  so." 


16  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

"  Caunot  I  know  it  ?  "  asked  Septimius. 

"  Scarcely,  just  now,"  said  his  friend.  "  Study  for  the 
ministry ;  bind  your  thoughts  to  it ;  pray ;  ask  a  belief, 
and  you  will  soon  find  you  have  it.  Doubts  may  oc- 
casionally press  in ;  and  it  is  so  with  every  clergyman. 
But  your  prevailing  mood  will  be  faith." 

"  It  has  seemed  to  me,"  observed  Septimius,  "  that  it 
is  not  the  prevailing  mood,  the  most  common  one,  that  is 
to  be  trusted.  This  is  habit,  formality,  the  shallow  cov- 
ering which  we  close  over  what  is  real,  and  seldom  suffer 
to  be  blown  aside.  But  it  is  the  snakelike  doubt  that 
thrusts  out  its  head,  which  gives  us  a  glimpse  of  reality. 
Surely  such  moments  are  a  hundred  times  as  real  as  the 
dull,  quiet  moments  of  faith,  or  what  you  call  such." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  you,"  said  the  minister ;  "  yet  to  a 
youth  of  your  frame  of  character,  of  your  ability  I  will 
say,  and  your  requisition  for  something  profound  in  the 
grounds  of  your  belief,  it  is  not  unusual  to  meet  this 
trouble.  Men  like  you  have  to  fight  for  their  faith. 
They  fight  in  the  first  place  to  win  it,  and  ever  after- 
wards to  hold  it.  The  Devil  tilts  with  them  daily,  and 
often  seems  to  win." 

"Yes;  but,"  replied  Septimius,  "he  takes  deadly 
weapons  now.  If  he  meet  me  with  the  cold  pure  steel 
of  a  spiritual  argument,  I  might  win  or  lose,  and  still 
not  feel  that  all  was  lost;  but  he  takes,  as  it  were,  a 
great  clod  of  earth,  massive  rocks  and  mud,  soil  and 
dirt,  and  flings  it  at  me  overwhelmingly ;  so  that  I  am 
buried  under  it." 

"  How  is  that  ? "  said  the  minister.  "  Tell  me  more 
plainly." 


SEPTIM1US    FELTON.  17 

"  May  it  not  be  possible,"  asked  Septimius,  "  to  have 
too  profound  a  sense  of  the  marvellous  contrivance  and 
adaptation  of  this  material  world  to  require  or  believe 
in  anything  spiritual?  How  wonderful  it  is  to  see  it 
all  alive  on  this  spring  day,  all  growing,  budding !  Do 
we  exhaust  it  in  our  little  life?  Not  so;  not  in  a 
hundred  or  a  thousand  lives.  The  whole  race  of  man, 
living  from  the  beginning  of  time,  have  not,  in  all  their 
number  and  multiplicity  and  in  all  their  duration,  come 
in  the  least  to  know  the  world  they  live  in !  And  how 
is  this  rich  world  thrown  away  upon  us,  because  we 
live  in  it  such  a  moment !  What  mortal  work  has  ever 
been  done  since  the  world  began !  Because  we  have  no 
time.  No  lesson  is  taught.  We  are  snatched  away  from 
our  study  before  we  have  learned  the  alphabet.  As  the 
world  now  exists,  I  confess  it  to  you  frankly,  my  dear 
pastor  and  instructor,  it  seems  to  me  all  a  failure,  be- 
cause we  do  not  live  long  enough." 

"  But  the  lesson  is  carried  on  in  another  state  of 
being ! " 

"  Not  the  lesson  that  we  begin  here,"  said  Septimius. 
"  We  might  as  well  train  a  child  in  a  primeval  forest,  to 
teach  him  how  to  live  in  a  European  court.  No,  the 
fall  of  man,  which  Scripture  tells  us  of,  seems  to  me 
to  have  its  operation  in  this  grievous  shortening  of  earth- 
ly existence,  so  that  our  life  here  at  all  is  grown  ridicu- 
lous." 

"Well,  Septimius,"  replied  the  minister,  sadly,  yet 
not  as  one  shocked  by  what  he  had  never  heard  before, 
"I  must  leave  you  to  struggle  through  this  form  of 
unbelief  as  best  you  may,  knowing  that  it  is  by  your 


18  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

own  efforts  that  you  must  come  to  the  other  side  of 

this  slough.    We  will  talk  further  another  time.     You 

are  getting  worn  out,   my  young  friend,   with   much 

study  and  anxiety.     It  were  well  for  you  to  live  more, 

for  the  present,  in  this  earthly  life  that  you  prize  so 

„  highly.      Cannot  you  interest  yourself  in  the  state  of 

i  this  country,  in  this  coming  strife,  the  voice  of  which 

I  now  sounds  so  hoarsely  and  so  near  us  ?     Come  out  of 

J   your  thoughts  and  breathe  another  air." 

"  I  will  try,"  said  Septimius. 

"Do,"  said  the  minister,  extending  his  hand  to  him, 
"and  in  a  little  time  you  will  find  the  change." 

He  shook  the  young  man's  hand  kindly,  and  took  his 
leave,  while  Septimius  entered  his  house,  and  turning 
to  the  right  sat  down  in  his  study,  where,  before  the 
fireplace,  stood  the  table  with  books  and   papers.     On 
the  shelves  around  the  low-studded  walls  were  more 
books,  few  in  number  but  of  an  erudite   appearance, 
many  of  them  having  descended  to   him  from  learned 
ancestors,  and  having  been  brought  to  light  by  himself 
after  long  lying  in  dusty  closets ;   works  of  good  and 
learned  divines,  whose  wisdom  he  had  happened,  by  help 
of  the  Devil,  to  turn  to  mischief,  reading  them  by  the 
light  of  hell-fire.    For,  indeed,  Septimius  had  but  given 
/the  clergyman  the  merest  partial  glimpse  of  his  state  of 
J    mind.     He  was  not  a  new  beginner  in  doubt;  but,  on 
|     the  contrary,  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had  never  been 
!     other  than  a  doubter  and  questioner,  even  in  his  boy- 
\    hood ;  believing  nothing,  although  a  thin  veil  of  rever- 
ence had  kept  him  from  questioning  some  things.     And 
now  the  new,  strange  thought  of  the  sufficiency  of  the 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  19 

world  for  man,  if  man  were  only  sufficient  for  that,  kept 
recurring  to  him;  and  with  it  came  a  certain  sense, 
which  he  had  been  conscious  of  before,  that  he,  at  least, 
might  never  die.  The  feeling  was  not  peculiar  to  Sep- 
timius.  It  is  an  instinct,  the  meaning  of  which  is  mis- 
taken. We  have  strongly  within  us  the  sense  of  an 
undying  principle,  and  we  transfer  that  true  sense  to 
this  life  and  to  the  body,  instead  of  interpreting  it  justly 
as  the  promise  of  spiritual  immortality. 

So  Septimius  looked  up  out  of  his  thoughts,  and  said 
proudly  :  "  Why  should  I  die  ?  I  cannot  die,  if  worthy 
to  live.  What  if  I  should  say  this  moment  that  I  will 
not  die,  not  till  ages  hence,  not  till  the  world  is  ex- 
hausted ?  Let  other  men  die,  if  they  choose  or  yield ; 
let  him  that  is  strong  enough  live !  " 

After  this  flush  of  heroic  mood,  however,  the  glow 
subsided,  and  poor  Septimius  spent  the  rest  of  the  day, 
as  was  his  wont,  poring  over  his  books,  in  which  all 
the  meanings  seemed  dead  and  mouldy,  and  like  pressed 
leaves  (some  of  which  dropped  out  of  the  books  as  he 
opened  them),  brown,  brittle,  sapless;  so  even  the 
thoughts,  which  when  the  writers  had  gathered  them 
seemed  to  them  so  brightly  colored  and  full  of  life. 
Then  he  began  to  see  that  there  must  have  been  some 
principle  of  life  left  out  of  the  book,  so  that  these  gath- 
ered thoughts  lacked  something  that  had  given  them 
their  only  value.  Then  he  suspected  that  the  way  truly 
to  live  and  answer  the  purposes  of  life  was  not  to  gather 
up  thoughts  into  books,  where  they  grew  so  dry,  but 
to  live  and  still  be  going  about,  full  of  green  wisdom, 
ripening  ever,  not  in  maxims  cut  and  dry,  but  a  wisdom 


20  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

ready  for  daily  occasions,  like  a  living  fountain;  and 
that  to  be  this,  it  was  necessary  to  exist  long  on  earth, 
drink  in  all  its  lessons,  and  not  to  die  on  the  attainment 
of  some  smattering  of  truth ;  but  to  live  all  the  more 
for  that;  and  apply  it  to  mankind  and  increase  it 
thereby. 

Everything  drifted  towards  the  strong,  strange  eddy 
into  which  his  mind  had  been  drawn :  all  his  thoughts 
set  hitherward. 

So  he  sat  brooding  in  his  study  until  the  shrill-voiced 
old  woman  —  an  aunt,  who  was  his  housekeeper  and 
domestic  ruler  —  called  him  to  dinner, — a  frugal  din- 
ner, —  and  chided  him  for  seeming  inattentive  to  a  dish 
of  early  dandelions  which  she  had  gathered  for  him ; 
but  yet  tempered  her  severity  with  respect  for  the  fu- 
ture clerical  rank  of  her  nephew,  and  for  his  already 
being  a  bachelor  of  arts.  The  old  woman's  voice  spoke 
outside  of  Septimius,  rambling  away,  and  he  paying  little 
heed,  till  at  last  dinner  was  over,  and  Septimius  drew 
back  his  chair,  about  to  leave  the  table. 

"Nephew  Septimius,"  said  the  old  woman,  "you 
began  this  meal  to-day  without  asking  a  blessing,  you 
get  up  from  it  without  giving  thanks,  and  you  soon  to 
be  a  minister  of  the  Word." 

"  God  bless  the  meat,"  replied  Septimius  (by  way  of 
blessing),  "and  make  it  strengthen  us  for  the  life  he 
means  us  to  bear.  Thank  God  for  our  food,"  he  added 
(by  way  of  grace),  "  and  may  it  become  a  portion  in  us 
of  an  immortal  body." 

"That  sounds  good,  Septimius,"  said  the  old  lady. 
"  Ah !  you  '11  be  a  mighty  man  in  the  pulpit,  and  worthy 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  21 

to  keep  up  the  name  of  your  great-grandfather,  who, 
they  say,  made  the  leaves  wither  on  a  tree  with  the 
fierceness  of  his  blast  against  a  sin.  Some  say,  to  be 
sure,  it  was  an  early  frost  that  helped  him." 

"  I  never  heard  that  before,  Aunt  Keziah,"  said  Sep- 
timius. 

"  I  warrant  you  no,"  replied  his  aunt.  "  A  man  dies, 
and  his  greatness  perishes  as  if  it  had  never  been,  and 
people  remember  nothing  of  him  only  when  Ihey  see  his 
gravestone  over  his  old  dry  bones,  and  say  he  was  a  good 
man  in  his  day." 

"  What  truth  there  is  in  Aunt  Keziah's  words ! " 
exclaimed  Septimius.  "And  how  I  hate  the  thought 
and  anticipation  of  that  contemptuous  appreciation  of 
a  man  after  his  death  !  Every  living  man  triumphs  over 
every  dead  one,  as  he  lies,  poor  and  helpless,  under  the 
mould,  a  pinch  of  dust,  a  heap  of  bones,  an  evil  odor ! 
I  hate  the  thought !  It  shall  not  be  so !  " 

It  was  strange  how  every  little  incident  thus  brought 
him  back  to  that  one  subject  which  was  taking  so  strong 
hold  of  his  mind  ;  every  avenue  led  thitherward  ;  and  he». 
took  it  for  an  indication  that  nature  had  intended,  by     >. 
innumerable  ways,  to  point  out  to  us  the  great  truth 
that  death  was  an  alien  misfortune,  a  prodigy,  a  mon- 
strosity, into  which  man  had  only  fallen  by  defect ;  and     / 
that  even  now,  if  a  man  had  a  reasonable  portion  of  his/ 
original  strength  in  him,  he  might  live  forever  and  spurn 
death. 

Our  story  is  an  internal  one,  dealing  as  little  as  pos-. 
sible  with  outward  events,  and  taking  hold  of  these  only     • 
where  it  cannot  be  helped,  in  order  by  means  of  them  to 


22  SEPTIMIUS    FELTOX. 

(  delineate  the  history  of  a  mind  bewildered  in  certain 
Verrors.  We  would  not  willingly,  if  we  could,  give  a 
lively  and  picturesque  surrounding  to  this  delineation, 
but  it  is  necessary  that  we  should  advert  to  the  circum- 
stances of  the  time  in  which  this  inward  history  was 
passing.  We  will  say,  therefore,  that  that  night  there 
was  a  cry  of  alarm  passing  all  through  the  succession  of 
country  towns  and  rural  communities  that  lay  around 
Boston,  and  dying  away  towards  the  coast  and  the 
wilder  forest  borders.  Horsemen  galloped  past  the  line  of 
farm-houses  shouting  alarm  !  alarm  !  There  were  stories 
of  marching  troops  coming  like  dreams  through  the  mid- 
night. Around  the  little  rude  meeting-houses  there  was 
here  and  there  the  beat  of  a  drum,  and  the  assemblage 
of  farmers  with  their  weapons.  So  all  that  night  there 
was  marching,  there  was  mustering,  there  was  trouble ; 
and,  on  the  road  from  Boston,  a  steady  march  of  sol- 
diers' feet  onward,  onward  into  the  land  whose  last  war- 
like disturbance  had  been  when  the  red  Indians  trod  it. 

Septimius  heard  it,  and  knew,  like  the  rest,  that  it  was 
the  sound  of  coming  war.  "  Fools  that  men  are  !  "  said 
he,  as  he  rose  from  bed  and  looked  out  at  the  misty  stars ; 
"  they  do  not  live  long  enough  to  know  the  value  and 
purport  of  life,  else  they  would  combine  together  to  live 
long,  instead  of  throwing  away  the  lives  of  thousands  as 
they  do.  And  what  matters  a  little  tyranny  in  so  short 
a  life  ?  What  matters  a  form  of  government  for  such 
ephemeral  creatures  ?  " 

As  morning  brightened,  these  sounds,  this  clamor,  — 
or  something  that  was  in  the  air  and  caused  the  clamor, 
—  grew  so  loud  that  Septimius  seemed  to  feel  it  even  in 


SEPT1MIUS    FELTON.  23 

his  solitude.  It  was  in  the  atmosphere,  —  storm,  wild 
excitemeiit,  a  coming  deed.  Meu  hurried  along  the  usu- 
ally lonely  road  in  groups,  with  weapons  in  their  hands, 
—  the  old  fowling-piece  of  seven-foot  barrel,  with  which 
the  Puritans  had  shot  ducks  on  the  river  and  Walden 
Pond ;  the  heavy  harquebus,  which  perhaps  had  levelled 
one  of  King  Philip's  Indians ;  the  old  King  gun,  that 
blazed  away  at  the  French  of  Louisburg  or  Quebec,  — 
hunter,  husbandman,  all  were  hurrying  each  other.  It 
was  a  good  time,  everybody  felt,  to  be  alive,  a  nearer  kin- 
dred, a  closer  sympathy  between  man  and  man;  a  sense 
of  the  goodness  of  the  world,  of  the  sacredness  of  coun- 
try, of  the  excellence  of  life ;  and  yet  its  slight  account 
compared  with  any  truth,  any  principle;  the  weighing  of 
the  material  and  ethereal,  and  the  finding  the  former  not 
worth  considering,  when,  nevertheless,  it  had  so  much  to 
do  with  the  settlement  of  the  crisis.  The  ennobling  of 
brute  force  ;  the  feeling  that  it  had  its  godlike  side ;  the 
drawing  of  heroic  breath  amid  the  scenes  of  ordinary  life, 
so  that  it  seemed  as  if  they  had  all  been  transfigured  since 
yesterday.  O,  high,  heroic,  tremulous  juncture,  when 
man  felt  himself  almost  an  angel ;  on  the  verge  of  doing 
deeds  that  outwardly  look  so  fiendish !  O,  strange  rap- 
ture of  the  coming  battle  !  We  know  something  of  that 
time  now ;  we  that  have  seen  the  muster  of  the  village 
soldiery  on  the  meeting-house  green,  and  at  railway  sta- 
tions ;  and  heard  the  drum  and  fife,  and  seen  the  fare- 
wells ;  seen  the  familiar  faces  that  we  hardly  knew,  now 
that  we  felt  them  to  be  heroes  ;  breathed  higher  breath 
for  their  sakes ;  felt  our  eyes  moistened ;  thanked  them 
in  our  souls  for  teaching  us  that  nature  is  yet  capable  of 


24  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

heroic  moments ;  felt  how  a  great  impulse  lifts  up  a  peo- 
ple, and  every  cold,  passionless,  indifferent  spectator,  — 
lifts  him  up  into  religion,  and  makes  him  join  in  what 
becomes  an  act  of  devotion,  a  prayer,  when  perhaps  he 
hut  half  approves. 

Septimius  could  not  study  on  a  morning  like  this.  He 
tried  to  say  to  himself  that  he  had  nothing  to  do  with 
this  excitement;  that  his  studious  life  kept  him  away 
from  it ;  that  his  intended  profession  was  that  of  peace ; 
but  say  what  he  might  to  himself,  there  was  a  tremor,  a 
bubbling  impulse,  a  tingling  in  his  ears,  —  the  page  that 
he  opened  glimmered  and  dazzled  before  him. 

"  Septimius  !  Septimius  !  "  cried  Aunt  Keziah,  look- 
ing into  the  room,  "  in  Heaven's  name,  are  you  going  to 
sit  here  to-day,  and  the  redcoats  coming  to  burn  the 
house  over  our  heads  ?  Must  I  sweep  you  out  with  the 
broomstick  ?  For  shame,  boy  !  for  shame  ! " 

"  Are  they  coming,  then,  Aunt  Keziah  ?  "  asked  her 
nephew.  "  Well,  I  am  not  a  fighting-man." 

"  Certain  they  are.  They  have  sacked  Lexington,  and 
slain  the  people,  and  burnt  the  meeting-house.  That 
concerns  even  the  parsons;  and  you  reckon  yourself 
among  them.  Go  out,  go  out,  I  say,  and  learn  the 
news ! " 

Whether  moved  by  these  exhortations,  or  by  his  own 
stifled  curiosity,  Septimius  did  at  length  issue  from  his 
door,  though  with  that  reluctance  which  hampers  and 
impedes  men  whose  current  of  thought  and  interest  runs 
apart  from  that  of  the  world  in  general;  but  forth  he 
came,  feeling  strangely,  and  yet  with  a  strong  impulse  to 
fling  himself  headlong  into  the  emotion  of  the  moment. 


SEPTIMIUS    FKLTON.  25 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning,  spring-like  and  summer-like 
at  once.  It'  there  Lad  been  nothing  else  to  do  or  think 
of,  such  a  morning  was  enough  for  life  only  to  breathe 
its  air  and  be  conscious  of  its  inspiring  influence. 

Septimius  turned  along  the  road  towards  the  village, 
meaning  to  mingle  with  the  crowd  on  the  green,  and 
there  learn  all  he  could  of  the  rumors  that  vaguely  filled 
the  air,  and  doubtless  were  shaping  themselves  into  vari- 
ous forms  of  fiction. 

As  he  passed  the  small  dwelling  of  Rose  Garfield,  she 
stood  on  the  doorstep,  and  bounded  forth  a  little  way  to 
meet  him,  looking  frightened,  excited,  and  yet  half 
pleased,  but  strangely  pretty  ;  prettier  than  ever  before, 
owing  to  some  hasty  adornment  or  other,  that  she  would 
never  have  succeeded  so  well  in  giviug  to  herself  if  she 
had  had  more  time  to  do  it  in. 

"  Septimius  —  Mr.  Felton,"  cried  she,  asking  informa- 
tion of  him  who,  of  all  men  in  the  neighborhood,  knew 
nothing  of  the  intelligence  afloat ;  but  it  showed  a  certain 
importance  that  Septimius  had  with  her.  "  Do  you 
really  think  the  redcoats  are  coming?  Ah,  what  shall 
we  do  ?  What  shall  we  do  ?  But  you  are  not  going  to 
the  village,  too,  and  leave  us  all  alone  ?  " 

"  I  know  not  whether  they  are  coming  or  no,  Rose," 
said  Septimius,  stopping  to  admire  the  young  girl's  fresh 
beauty,  which  made  a  double  stroke  upon  him  by  her 
excitement,  and,  moreover,  msde  her  twice  as  free  with 
him  as  ever  she  had  been  before;  for  there  is  nothing 
truer  than  that  any  breaking  up  of  the  ordinary  state  of 
things  is  apt  to  shake  women  out  of  their  proprieties, 
break  down  barriers,  and  bring  them  into  perilous  prox- 
2 


26  SEPT1MIUS    FELTON. 

imity  with  the  world.     "  Are  you  alone  here  ?     Had  you 
not  better  take  shelter  in  the  village  ?  " 

"  And  leave  my  poor,  bedridden  grandmother !  "  cried 
Rose,  angrily.  "  You  know  I  can't,  Septimius.  But  I 
suppose  I  am  in  no  danger.  Go  to  the  village,  if  you 
like." 

"  Where  is  Robert  Hagburn  ?  "  asked  Septimius. 

"  Gone  to  the  village  this  hour  past,  with  his  grand- 
father's old  firelock  on  his  shoulder,"  said  Rose ;  "  he 
was  running  bullets  before  daylight." 

"  Rose,  I  will  stay  with  you,"  said  Septimius. 

"  0  gracious,  here  they  come,  I  'in  sure !  "  cried  Rose. 
"  Look  yonder  at  the  dust.  Mercy !  a  man  at  a  gallop  !" 

In  fact,  along  the  road,  a  considerable  stretch  of  which 
was  visible,  they  heard  the  clatter  of  hoofs  and  saw  a  lit- 
tle cloud  of  dust  approaching  at  the  rate  of  a  gallop,  and 
disclosing,  as  it  drew  near,  a  hatless  countryman  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  who,  bending  over  his  horse's  neck,  applied 
a  cart-whip  lustily  to  the  animal's  flanks,  so  as  to  incite 
him  to  most  unwonted  speed.  At  the  same  time,  glaring 
upon  Rose  and  Septimius,  he  lifted  up  his  voice  and 
shouted  in  a  strange,  high  tone,  that  communicated  the 
tremor  and  excitement  of  the  shouter  to  each  auditor: 
"  Alarum  !  alarum  !  alarum  !  The  redcoats  !  The  red- 
coats !  To  arms  !  alarum  !" 

And  trailing  this  sound  far  wavering  behind  him  like  a 

pennon,  the  eager  horseman  dashed  onward  to  the  village. 

"  0  dear,  what  shall  we  do  ?  "  cried  Rose,  her  eyes  full 

of  tears,  yet  dancing  with  excitement.     "  They  are  com- 

*  «$ !  they  are  coming !     I  hear  the  drum  and  fife." 

"I  really  believe  they  are,"  said  Septimius,  his  cheek 


SEPTIM1US    FELTON.  27 

flushing  and  growing  pale,  not  with  fear,  but  the  inevita- 
ble tremor,  half  painful,  half  pleasurable,  of  the  moment. 
"  Hark  !  there  was  the  shrill  note  of  a  fife.  Yes,  they  are 
coming ! " 

He  tried  to  persuade  Rose  to  hide  herself  in  the  house ; 
but  that  young  person  would  not  be  persuaded  to  do  so, 
clinging  to  Septimius  in  a  way  that  flattered  while  it  per- 
plexed him.  Besides,  with  all  the  girl's  fright,  she  had 
still  a  good  deal  of  courage,  and  much  curiosity  too,  to 
see  what  these  redcoats  were  of  whom  she  heard  such 
terrible  stories. 

"  Well,  well,  Rose,"  said  Septimius ;  "  I  doubt  not 
we  may  stay  here  without  danger, —  you,  a  woman,  and 
I,  whose  profession  is  to  be  that  of  peace  and  good-will 
to  all  men.  They  cannot,  whatever  is  said  of  them,  be 
on  an  errand  of  massacre.  We  will  stand  here  quietly; 
and,  seeing  that  we  do  not  fear  them,  they  will  under- 
stand that  we  mean  them  no  harm." 

They  stood,  accordingly,  a  little  in  front  of  the  door  by 
the  well-curb,  and  soon  they  saw  a  heavy  cloud  of  dust, 
from  amidst  which  shone  bayonets ;  and  anon,  a  military 
band,  which  had  hitherto  been  silent,  struck  up,  with 
drum  and  fife,  to  which  the  tramp  of  a  thousand  feet  fell 
in  regular  order;  then  came  the  column,  moving  mas- 
sively, and  the  redcoats  who  seemed  somewhat  wearied 
by  a  long  night-march,  dusty,  with  bedraggled  gaiters, 
covered  with  sweat  which  had  run  down  from  their  pow- 
dered locks.  Nevertheless,  these  ruddy,  lusty  English- 
men marched  stoutly,  as  men  that  needed  only  a  half- 
hour's  rest,  a  good  breakfast,  and  a  pot  of  beer  apiece,  to 
make  them  ready  to  face  the  world.  Nor  did  their  faces 


28  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

look  anywise  rancorous ;  but  at  most,  only  heavy,  clod- 
dish, good-natured,  and  humane. 

"0  heavens,  Mr.  Felton ! "  whispered  Rose,  "why 
should  we  shoot  these  men,  or  they  us  ?  they  look  kind, 
if  homely.  Each  of  them  has  a  mother  and  sisters,  I 
suppose,  just  like  our  men." 

"  It  is  the  strangest  thing  in  the  world  that  we  can 
think  of  killing  them,"  said  Scptimius.  "Human  life 
is  so  precious." 

Just  as  they  were  passing  the  cottage,  a  halt  was 
called  by  the  commanding  officer,  in  order  that  some 
little  rest  might  get  the  troops  into  a  better  condition 
and  give  them  breath  before  entering  the  village,  where 
it  was  important  to  make  as  imposing  a  show  as  possi- 
ble. During  this  brief  stop,  some  of  the  soldiers  ap- 
proached the  well-curb,  near  which  Rose  and  Septimius 
were  standing,  and  let  down  the  bucket  to  satisfy  their 
thirst.  A  young  officer,  a  petulant  boy,  extremely  hand- 
some, and  of  gay  and  buoyant  deportment,  also  came  up. 

"  Get  me  a  cup,  pretty  one,"  said  he,  patting  Rose's 
cheek  with  great  freedom,  though  it  was  somewhat  and 
indefinitely  short  of  rudeness;  "a  mug,  or  something  to 
drink  out  of,  and  you  shall  have  a  kiss  for  your  pains." 

"Stand  off,  sir!"  said  Septimius,  fiercely;  "it  is  a 
coward's  part  to  insult  a  woman." 

"I  intend  no  insult  in  this,"  replied  the  handsome 
young  officer,  suddenly  snatching  a  kiss  from  Rose, 
before  she  could  draw  back.  "  And  if  you  think  it  so, 
my  good  friend,  you  had  better  take  your  weapon  and 
get  as  much  satisfaction  as  you  can,  shooting  at  me  from 
behind  a  hedge." 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  29 

Before  Septimius  could  reply  or  act,  —  and,  in  truth, 
the  easy  presumption  of  the  young  Englishman  made  it 
difficult  for  him,  an  inexperienced  recluse  as  he  was,  to 
know  what  to  do  or  say,  —  the  drum  beat  a  little  tap, 
recalling  the  soldiers  to  their  rank  and  to  order.  The 
yoaag  officer  hastened  back,  with  a  laughing  glance  at 
Rose  and  a  light,  contemptuous  look  of  defiance  at  Sep- 
timus, the  drums  rattling  out  in  full  beat,  and  the  troops 
marched  on. 

"What  impertinence!"  said  Rose,  whose  indignant 
color  made  her  look  pretty  enough  almost  to  excuse  the 
offence. 

It  is  uot  easy  to  see  how  Soptimius  could  have 
shielded  ner  from  the  insult ;  and  yet  he  felt  incon- 
ceivably outraged  and  humiliated  at  the  thought  that 
this  offence  had  occurred  while  Rose  was  under  his 
protection,  and  he  responsible  for  her.  Besides,  some- 
how or  other,  he  was  angry  with  her  for  having  under- 
gone the  wrong,  though  certainly  mosc  unreasonably ; 
for  the  whole  thing  was  quicker  done  than  said. 

"  You  had  better  go  into  the  house  now,  Rose,"  said 
he,  "  and  see  to  your  bedridden  grandmother." 

"  And  what  will  you  do,  Septimius  ?  "  asked  she. 

"  Perhaps  I  will  house  myself,  also,"  he  replied. 
"Perhaps  take  yonder  proud  redcoat's  counsel,  and 
shoot  him  behind  a  hedge." 

"But  not  kill  him  outright;  I  suppose  he  has  a 
mother  and  a  sweetheart,  the  handsome  young  officer," 
murmured  Rose  pityingly  to  herself. 

Septimius  went  into  his  house,  and  sat  in  his  study  for 
some  hours,  in  that  unpleasant  state  of  feeling  which  a 


30  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

man  of  brooding  thought  is  apt  to  experience  when  the 
world  around  him  is  in  a  state  of  intense  action,  which 
he  finds  it  impossible  to  sympathize  with.  There  seemed 
to  be  a  stream  rushing  past  him,  by  which,  even  if  he 
plunged  into  the  midst  of  it,  he  could  not  be  wet.  He 
felt  himself  strangely  ajar  with  the  human  race,  and 
would  have  given  much  either  to  be  in  full  accord  with 
it,  or  to  be  separated  from  it  forever. 

"  I  am  dissevered  from  it.  It  is  my  doom  to  be  only 
a  spectator  of  life  ;  to  look  on  as  one  apart  from  it.  Is 
it  not  well,  therefore,  that,  sharing  none  of  its  pleasures 
and  happiness,  I  should  be  free  of  its  fatalities,  its  brev- 
ity ?  How  cold  I  am  now,  while  this  whirlpool  of  public 
feeling  is  eddying  around  me !  It  is  as  if  I  had  not  been 
born  of  woman  !  " 

Thus  it  was,  that,  drawing  wild  inferences  from  phe- 
nomena of  the  mind  and  heart  common  to  people  who,  by- 
some  morbid  action  within  themselves,  are  set  ajar  with 
the  world,  Septimius  continued  still  to  come  round  to 
that  strange  idea  of  undyingness  which  had  recently 
taken  possession  of  him.  And  yet  he  was  wrong  in 
thinking  himself  cold,  and  that  he  felt  no  sympathy  in  the 
fever  of  patriotism  that  was  throbbing  through  his  coun- 
trymen. He  was  restless  as  a  flame ;  he  could  not  fix 
his  thoughts  upon  his  book ;  he  could  not  sit  in  bis 
chair,  but  kept  pacing  to  and  fro,  while  through  the  open 
window  came  noises  to  which  his  imagination  gave  di- 
verse interpretation.  Now«it  was  a  distant  drum ;  now 
shouts ;  by  and  by  there  came  the  rattle  of  musketry, 
that  seemed  to  proceed  from  some  point  more  distant 
than  the  village;  a  regular  roll,  then  a  ragged  volley, 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  31 

then  scattering  shots.  Unable  any  longer  to  preserve 
this  unnatural  indifference,  Septimius  snatched  his  gun, 
and,  rushing  out  of  the  house,  climbed  the  abrupt  hillside 
behind,  whence  he  could  see  a  long  way  towards  the  vil- 
lage, till  a  slight  bend  hid  the  uneven  road.  It  was 
quite  vacant,  not  a  passenger  upon  it.  But  there  seemed 
to  be  confusion  in  that  direction  ;  an  unseen  and  inscru- 
table trouble,  blowing  thence  towards  him,  intimated  by 
vague  sounds,  —  by  no  sounds.  Listening  eagerly,  how- 
ever, he  at  last  fancied  a  mustering  sound  of  the  drum ; 
then  it  seemed  as  if  it  were  coming  towards  him  ,-  while 
in  advance  rode  another  horseman,  the  same  kind  of 
headlong  messenger,  in  appearance,  who  had  passed  the 
house  with  his  ghastly  cry  of  alarum ;  then  appeared 
scattered  countrymen,  with  guns  in  their  hands,  strag- 
gling across  fields.  Then  he  caught  sight  of  the  regular 
array  of  British  soldiers,  filling  the  road  with  their  front, 
and  inarching  along  as  firmly  as  ever,  though  at  a  quick 
pace,  while  he  fancied  that  the  officers  looked  watchfully 
around.  As  he  looked,  a  shot  rang  sharp  from  the  hill- 
side towards  the  village ;  the  smoke  curled  up,  and  Sep- 
timius saw  a  man  stagger  and  fall  in  the  midst  of  the 
troops.  Septimius  shuddered ;  it  was  so  like  murder 
that  he  really  could  not  tell  the  difference;  his  knees 
trembled  beneath  him ;  his  breath  grew  short,  not  with 
terror,  but  with  some  new  sensation  of  awe. 

Another  shot  or  two  came  almost  simultaneously  from 
the  wooded  height,  but  without  any  effect  that  Septimius 
could  perceive.  Almost  at  the  same  moment  a  company 
of  the  British  soldiers  wheeled  from  the  main  body,  and, 
dashing  out  of  the  road,  climbed  the  hill,  and  disappeared 


32  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

into  the  wood  and  shrubbery  that  veiled  it.  There  were 
a  few  straggling  shots,  by  whom  fired,  or  with  what 
effect,  was  invisible,  and  meanwhile  the  main  body  of 
the  enemy  proceeded  along  the  road.  They  had  now 
advanced  so  nigh  that  Septimius  was  strangely  assailed 
by  the  idea  that  he  might,  with  the  gun  in  his  hand, 
fire  right  into  the  midst  of  them,  and  select  any  man  of 
that  now  hostile  band  to  be  a  victim.  How  strange, 
^how  strange  it  is,  this  deep,  wild  passion  that  nature  has 
implanted  in  us  to  be  the  death  of  our  felloWrcreaturesT 
and  which  coexists  at  the  same  time  with  horror  !  Sep- 
timius levelled  his  weapon,  and  drew  it  up  again ;  he 
marked  a  mounted  officer,  who  seemed  to  be  in  chief 
command,  whom  he  knew  that  he  could  kill.  But  no ! 
he  had  really  no  such  purpose.  Only  it  was  such  a 
temptation.  And  in  a  moment  the  horse  would  leap, 
the  officer  would  fall  and  lie  there  in  the  dust  of  the 
road,  bleeding,  gasping,  breathing  in  spasms,  breathing 
no  more. 

While  the  young  man,  in  these  unusual  circumstances, 
stood  watching  the  marching  of  the  troops,  he  heard  the 
noise  of  rustling  boughs,  and  the  voices  of  men,  and 
soon  understood  that  the  party,  which  he  had  seen 
separate  itself  from  the  main  body  and  ascend  the  hill, 
was  now  marching  along  on  the  hill-top,  the  long  ridge 
which,  with  a  gap  or  two,  extended  as  much  as  a  mile 
from  the  village.  One  of  these  gaps  occurred  a  little 
way  from  where  Septimius  stood.  They  were  acting  as 
flank  guard,  to  prevent  the  uproused  people  from  coming 
so  close  to  the  main  body  as  to  fire  upon  it,  He  looked 
and  saw  that  the  detachment  of  British  was  plunging 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  33 

down  one  side  of  this  gap,  with  intent  to  ascend  the 
other,  so  that  they  would  pass  directly  over  the  spot 
where  he  stood  ;  a  slight  removal  to  one  side,  among  the 
small  bushes,  would  conceal  him.  He  stepped  aside 
accordingly,  and  from  his  concealment,  not  without 
drawing  quicker  breaths,  beheld  the  party  draw  near. 
They  were  more  intent  upon  the  space  between  them 
and  the  main  body  than  upon  the  dense  thicket  of 
birch-trees,  pitch-pines,  sumach,  and  dwarf  oaks,  which, 
scarcely  yet  beginning  to  bud  into  leaf,  lay  on  the  other 
side,  and  in  which  Septimius  lurked. 

[Describe  how  their  faces  affected  him,  passing  so  near; 
how  strange  they  seemedJ] 

They  had  all  passed,  except  an  officer  who  brought  up 
the  rear,  and  who  had  perhaps  been  attracted  by  some 
slight  motion  that  Septimius  made,  —  some  rustle  in  the 
thicket ;  for  he  stopped,  fixed  his  eyes  piercingly  towards 
the  spot  where  he  stood,  and  levelled  a  light  fusil  which 
he  carried.  "  Stand  out,  or  I  shoot,"  said  he. 

Not  to  avoid  the  shot,  but  because  his  manhood  felt  a 
call  upon  it  not  to  skulk  in  obscurity  from  an  open 
enemy,  Septimius  at  once  stood  forth,  and  confronted  the 
same  handsome  young  officer  with  whom  those  fierce 
words  had  passed  on  account  of  his  rudeness  to  Rose 
Garfield.  Septimius's  fierce  Indian  blood  siirraljn.  him, 
and  gave  a  murderous  excitement. 

"Ah,  it  is ^ouT"  saicPthe  young  officer,  with  a 
haughty  smile.  "  You  meant,  then,  to  take  up  with  my 
hint  of  shooting  at  me  from  behind  a  hedge  ?  This  is 
better.  Come,  we  have  in  the  first  place  the  great  quar- 
rel between  me  a  king's  soldier,  and  you  a  rebel ;  next 
2*  c 


31  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

our  private  affair,  on  account  of  yonder  pretty  girl. 
Come,  let  us  take  a  shot  ou  either  score ! " 

The  young  officer  was  so  handsome,  so  beautiful,  in 
budding  youth  ;  there  was  such  a  free,  gay  petulance  in 
his  manner ;  there  seemed  so  little  of  real  evil  in  him  ;  he 
put  himself  on  equal  ground  with  the  rustic  Septimius  so 
generously,  that  the  latter,  often  so  morbid  and  sullen, 
never  felt  a  greater  kindness  for  fellow-man  than  at  this 
moment  for  this  youth. 

"I  have  no  enmity  towards  you,"  said  he;  "go  in 
peace." 

"  No  enmity  !  "  replied  the  officer.  "  Then  why  were 
you  here  with  your  gun  amongst  the  shrubbery  ?  But  I 
have  a  mind  to  do  my  first  deed  of  arms  on  you ;  so  give 
up  your  weapon,  and  come  with  me  as  prisoner." 

"A  prisoner  !  "  cried  Septimius, Jhatjndian  fierceness 
that  was  in  him  arousing  itself,  and  thrusting  up  its  ma- 
lign head  like  a  snake.  "  Never  !  If  you  would  have 
me,  you  must  take  my  dead  body." 

"  Ah  well,  you  have  pluck  in  you,  I  see,  only  it  needs 
a  considerable  stirring.  Come,  this  is  a  good  quarrel  of 
ours.  Let  us  fight  it  out.  Stand  where  you  are,  and  I 
will  give  the  word  of  command.  Now ;  ready,  aim, 
fire  !  " 

As  the  young  officer  spoke  the  three  last  words,  in 
rapid  succession,  he  and  his  antagonist  brought  their 
firelocks  to  the  shoulder,  aimed  and  fired.  Septimius 
felt,  as  it  were,  the  sting  of  a  gadfly  passing  across  his 
temple,  as  the  Englishman's  bullet  grazed  it ;  but,  to  his 
surprise  and  horror  (for  the  whole  thing  scarcely  seemed 
real  to  him),  he  saw  the  officer  give  a  great  start,  drop 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  35 

his  fusil,  and  stagger  against  a  tree,  with  his  hand  to  his 
breast,  He  endeavored  to  support  himself  erect,  but, 
failing  in  the  effort,  beckoned  to  Septimius. 

"  Come,  my  good  friend,"  said  he,  with  that  playful, 
petulant  smile  flitting  over  his  face  again.  "It  is  my 
first  and  last  fight.  Let  me  down  as  softly  as  you  can 
on  mother  earth,  the  mother  of  both  you  and  me  ;  so  we 
are  brothers ;  and  this  may  be  a  brotherly  act,  though  it 
does  not  look  so,  nor  feel  so.  Ah  !  that  was  a  twinge 
indeed ! " 

"  Good  God !  "  exclaimed  Septimius.  "  I  had  no 
thought  of  t  his,  no  malice  towards  you  in  the  least ! " 

"  Nor  I  towards  you,"  said  the  young  man.  "  It  was 
boy's  play,  and  the  end  of  it  is  that  I  die  a  boy,  instead 
of  living  fbrever,  as  perhaps  I  otherwise  might." 

"  Living  forever !  "  repeated  Septimius,  his  attention 
arrested,  even  at  that  breathless  moment,  by  words  that 
rang  so  strangely  on  what  had  been  his  brooding  thought. 

"  Yes ;  but  I  have  lost  my  chance,"  said  the  young 
officer.  Then,  as  Septimius  helped  him  to  lie  against 
the  little  hillock  of  a  decayed  and  buried  stump,  "  Thank 
you ;  thank  you.  If  you  could  only  call  back  one  of 
my  comrades  to  hear  my  dying  words.  But  I  forgot. 
You  have  killed  me,  and  they  would  take  your  life." 

In  truth,  Septimius  was  so  moved  and  so  astonished, 
that  he  probably  would  have  called  back  the  young  man's 
comrades,  had  it  been  possible ;  but,  marching  at  the 
swift  rate  of  men  in  peril,  they  had  already  gone  far  on- 
ward, in  their  passage  through  the  shrubbery  that  had 
ceased  to  rustle  behind  them. 

"  Yes ;  I  must  die  here !  "  said  the  young  man,  with 


36  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

a  forlorn  expression,  as  of  a  school-boy  far  away  from 
home,  "  and  nobody  to  see  me  now  but  you,  who  have 
killed  me.  Could  you  fetch  me  a  drop  of  water?  I 
have  a  great  thirst." 

Septimius,  in  a  dream  of  horror  and  pity,  rushed 
down  the  hillside ;  the  house  was  empty,  for  Aunt  Ke- 
ziah  had  gone  for  shelter  and  sympathy  to  some  of  the 
neighbors.  He  filled  a  jug  with  cold  water,  and  hurried 
back  to  the  hill-top,  finding  the  young  officer  looking 
paler  and  more  deathlike  within  those  few  moments. 

"  I  thank  you,  my  enemy  that  was,  my  friend  that  is," 
murmured  he,  faintly  smiling.  "  Methiuks,  next  to  the 
father  and  mother  that  gave  us  birth,  the  next  most  in- 
timate relation  must  be  with'  the  man  that  slays  us,  who 
introduces  us  to  the  mysterious  world  to  which  this  is 
but  the  portal.  You  and  I  are  singularly  connected, 
doubt  it  not,  in  the  scenes  of  the  unknown  world." 

"  0,  believe  me,"  cried  Septimius,  "  I  grieve  for  you 
like  a  brother  !  " 

"I  see  it,  my  dear  friend,"  said  the  young  officer; 
"  and  though  my  blood  is  on  your  hands,  I  forgive  you 
freely,  if  there  is  anything  to  forgive.  But  I  am  dying, 
and  have  a  few  words  to  say,  which  you  must  hear. 
You  have  slain  me  in  fair  fight,  and  my  spoils,  according 
to  the  rules  and  customs  of  warfare,  belong  to  the  vic- 
tor. Hang  up  my  sword  and  fusil  over  your  chimney- 
place,  and  tell  your  children,  twenty  years  hence,  how 
they  were  won.  My  purse,  keep  it  or  give  it  to  the 
poor.  There  is  something,  here  next  my  heart,  which  I 
would  fab  nave  sent  to  the  address  which  I  will  give 
you." 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  37 

Septimius,  obeying  his  directions,  took  from  his  breast 
a  miniature  that  hung  round  it ;  but,  on  examination,  it 
proved  that  the  bullet  had  passed  directly  through  it, 
shattering  the  ivory,  so  that  the  woman's  face  it  repre- 
sented was  quite  destroyed. 

"  Ah !  that  is  a  pity,"  said  the  young  man ;  and  yet 
Septimius  thought  that  there  was  something  light  and 
contemptuous  mingled  with  the  pathos  in  his  tones. 
"  Well,  but  send  it ;  cause  it  to  be  transmitted,  accord- 
ing to  the  address." 

He  gave  Septimius,  and  made  him  take  down  on  a  tab- 
let which  he  had  about  him,  the  name  of  a  hall  in  one  of 
the  midland  counties  of  England. 

"  Ah,  that  old  place,"  said  he,  "  with  its  oaks,  and  its  ^ 
lawn,  and  its  park,  and  its  Elizabethan  gables !     I  little 
thought  I  should  die  here,  so  far  away,  in  this  barren 
Yankee  laud.     Where  will  you  bury  me  ?  " 

As  Septimius  hesitated  to  answer,  the  young  man  con- 
tinued :  "  I  would  like  to  have  lain  in  the  little  old  church 
at  Whituash,  which  conies  up  before  me  now,  with  its  low, 
gray  tower,  and  the  old  yew-tree  in  front,  hollow  with 
age,  and  the  village  clustering  about  it,  with  its  thatched 
houses.  I  would  be  loath  to  lie  in  one  of  your  Yankee 
graveyards,  for  I  have  a  distaste  for  them,  —  though  I 
love  you,  my  slayer.  Bury  me  here,  on  this  very  spot. 
A  soldier  lies  best  where  he  falls." 

"  Here,  in  secret  ?  "  exclaimed  Septimius. 

"  Yes  ;  there  is  no  consecration  in  your  Puritan  burial- 
grounds,"  said  the  dying  youth,  some  of  that  queer  nar- 
rowness of  English  Churchism  coming  into  his  mind. 
"  So  bury  me  here,  in  my  soldier's  dress.  Ah !  and 


38  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

my  watch  !  I  have  done  with  time,  and  you,  perhaps, 
have  a  lo,ig  lease  of  it ;  so  take  it,  not  as  spoil,  but 
as  my  parting  gift.  And  that  reminds  me  of  one  other 
thing.  Open  that  pocket-book  which  you  have  in  your 
hand." 

Septimius  did  so,  and  by  the  officer's  direction  took 

from  one  of  its  compartments   a  folded  paper,  closely 

/  written  in  a  crabbed  hand ;  it  was  considerably  worn  in 

the  outer  folds,  but  not  within.     There  was  also  a  small 

silver  key  in  the  pocket-book. 

"  I  leave  it  with  you,"  said  the  officer ;  "  it  was  given 
me  by  an  uncle,  a  learned  man  of  science,  who  intended 
me  great  good  by  what  he  there  wrote.  Reap  the  profit, 
if  you  can.  Sooth  to  say,  I  never  read  beyond  the  first 
lines  of  the  paper." 

Septimius  was  surprised,  or  deeply  impressed,  to  see 
v  that  through  this  paper,  as  well  as  through  the  minia- 
ture, had  gone  his  fatal  bullet,  —  straight  through  the 
midst ;  and  some  of  the  young  man's  blood,  saturating 
his  dress,  had  wet  the  paper  all  over.  He  hardly  thought 
himself  likely  to  derive  any  good  from  what  it  had  cost 
a  human  life,  taken  (however  uncriminally)  by  his  own 
hands,  to  obtain. 

"  Is  there  anything  more  that  I  can  do  for  you  ?  " 
asked  he,  with  genuine  sympathy  and  sorrow,  as  he  knelt 
by  his  fallen  foe's  side. 

"  Nothing,  nothing,  I  believe,"  said  he.  "  There  was 
one  thing  I  might  have  confessed  ;  if  there  were  a  holy 
man  here,  I  might  have  confessed,  and  asked  his  prayers ; 
for  though  I  have  lived  few  years,  it  has  been  long 
enough  to  do  a  great  wrong.  But  I  will  try  to  pray  in 


SEPTIMITJS    FELTON.  39 

my  secret  soul.  Turn  my  face  towards  the  trunk  of  the 
tree,  for  I  have  taken  my  last  look  at  the  world.  There, 
let  me  be  now." 

Septimius  did  as  the  young  man  requested,  and  then 
stood  leaning  against  one  of  the  neighboring  pines,  watch- 
ing his  victim  with  a  tender  concern  that  made  him  feel 
as  if  the  convulsive  throes  that  passed  through  his  frame 
were  felt  equally  in  his  own.  There  was  a  murmuring 
from  the  youth's  lips  which  seemed  to  Septimius  swift, 
soft,  and  melancholy,  like  the  voice  of  a  child  when  it  has 
some  naughtiness  to  confess  to  its  mother  at  bedtime ; 
contrite,  pleading,  yet  trusting.  So  it  continued  for  a 
few  minutes;  then  there  was  a  sudden  start  aud  struggle, 
as  if  he  were  striving  to  rise ;  his  eyes  met  those  of  Sep- 
timius with  a  wild,  troubled  gaze,  but  as  the  latter  caught 
him  in  his  arms,  he  was  dead.  Septimius  laid  the  body 
softly  down  on  the  leaf-strewn  earth,  and  tried,  as  he  had 
heard  was  the  custom  with  the  dead,  to  compose  the 
features  distorted  by  the  dying  agony.  He  then  flung 
Limself  on  the  ground  at  a  little  distance,  and  gave  him- 
self up  to  the  reflections  suggested  by  the  strange  occur- 
rences of  the  last  hour. 

He  had  taken  a  human  life ;  and,  however  the  circum- 
stances might  excuse  him,  —  might  make  the  thing  even 
something  praiseworthy,  and  that  would  be  called  patri- 
otic, —  still,  it,  was  not  at  once  that  a  fresh  country 
youth  could  see  anything  but  horror  in  the  blood  with 
which  his  hand  was  stained.  It  seemed  so  dreadful  to 
have  reduced  this  gay,  animated,  beautiful  being  to  a 
lump  of  dead  flesh  for  the  flies  to  settle  upon,  aud  which 
iu  a  few  hours  would  begin  to  decay;  which  must  be 


40  SEPTIMIUS    FELTOX. 

put  forthwith  into  the  earth,  lest  it  should  be  a  horror 
to  men's  eyes ;  that  delicious  beauty  for  woman  to  love ; 
that  strength  and  courage  to  make  him  famous  among 
men)  —  all  Come  to  nothing ;  all  probabilities  of  life  ill 
one  so  gifted ;  the  renown,  the  position,  the  pleasures, 
the  profits,  the  keen  ecstatic  joy,  —  this  never  could  be 
made  up, — all  ended  quite;  for  the  dark  doubt  de- 
scended upon  Septimius,  that,  because  of  the  very  fitness 
that  was  in  this  youth  to  enjoy  this  world,  so  much  the 
less  chance  was  there  of  his  being  fit  for  any  other 
world.  What  could  it  do  for  him  there,  —  this  beautiful 
grace  and  elegance  of  feature,  —  where  there  was  no 
form,  nothing  tangible  nor  visible  ?  what  good  that  readi- 
ness and  aptness  for  associating  with  all  created  things, 
doing  his  part,  acting,  enjoying,  when,  under  the  changed 
conditions  of  another  state  of  being,  all  this  adapteduess 
would  fail  ?  Had  he  been  gifted  with  permanence  ou 
earth,  there  could  not  have  been  a  more  admirable  crea- 
ture than  this  young  man ;  but  as  his  fate  had  turned 
out,  he  was  a  mere  grub,  an  illusion,  something  that 
nature  had  held  out  in  mockery,  and  then  withdrawn. 
A  weed  might  grow  from  his  dust  now ;  that  little  spot 
on  the  barren  hill-top,  where  he  had  desired  to  be 
buried,  would  be  greener  for  some  years  to  come,  and 
that  was  all  the  difference.  Septimius  could  not  get 
beyond  the  earthiness ;  his  feeling  was  as  if,  by  an  act 
of  violence,  he  had  forever  cut  off  a  happy  human  exist- 
ence. And  such  was  his  own  love  of  life  and  clinging 
to  it,  peculiar  to  dark,  sombre  natures,  and  which  lighter 
and  gayer  ones  can  never  know,  that  he  shuddered  at 
his  deed,  and  at  himself,  and  could  with  difficulty  bear 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  41 

to  be  alone  with  the  corpse  of  his  victim,  —  trembled  at 
the  thought  of  turning  his  face  towards  him. 

Yet  lie  did  so,  because  he  could  not  endure  the  imagi- 
nation that  the  dead  youth  was  turning  his  eyes  towards 
him  as  he  lay ;  so  he  came  aud  stood  beside  him,  looking 
down  into  his  white,  upturned  face.  But  it  was  won- 
derful !  What  a  change  had  come  over  it  since,  only  a 
few  moments  ago,  he  looked  at  that  death-contorted 
countenance  !  Now  there  was  a  high  aud  sweet  expres- 
sion upon  it,  of  great  joy  and  surprise,  and  yet  a  quie- 
tude diffused  throughout,  as  if  the  peace  being  so  very 
great  was  what  had  surprised  him.  The  expression  was 
like  a  light  gleaming  and  glowing  wilhiii  him.  Septim- 
ius  had  often,  at  a  certain  space  of  time  after  sunset, 
looking  westward,  seen  a  living  radiance  in  the  sky,  — 
the  last  light  of  the  dead  day,  that  seemed  just  the 
counterpart  of  this  death-light  in  the  young  man's  face. 
It  was  as  if  the  youth  were  just  at  the  gate  of  heaven, 
which,  swinging  softly  open,  let  the  inconceivable  glory 
of  the  blessed  city  shine  upon  his  face,  and  kindle  it  up 
with  gentle,  undisturbing  astonishment  and  purest  joy. 
It  was  an  expression  contrived  by  God's  providence  to 
comfort  ;  to  overcome  all  the  dark  auguries  that  the 
physical  ugliness  of  death  inevitably  creates,  and  to 
prove  by  the  divine  glory  on  the  face,  that  the  ugli- 
ness is  a  delusion.  It  was  as  if  the  dead  man  himself 
showed  his  face  out  of  the  sky,  with  heaven's  blessing 
on  it,  and  bade  the  afflicted  be  of  good  cheer,  and  believe 
in  immortality. 

Septimius  remembered  the  young  man's  injunctions 
to  bury  him  there,  on  the  hill,  without  uncovering  the 


42  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

body ;  and  though  it  seemed  a  sin  and  shame  to  cover 
up  that  beautiful  body  with  eartli  of  the  grave,  and  give 
it  to  the  worm,  yet  he  resolved  to  obey. 

Be  it  confessed  that,  beautiful  as  the  dead  form 
looked,  and  guiltless  as  Septimius  must  be  held  in  caus- 
ing his  death,  still  he  felt  as  if  he  should  be  eased  when 
it  was  under  the  ground.  He  hastened  down  to  the 
house,  and  brought  up  a  shovel  and  a  pickaxe,  and  began 
his  unwonted  task  of  grave-digging,  delving  earnestly  a 
deep  pit,  sometimes  pausing  in  his  toil,  while  the  sweat- 
drops  poured  from  him,  to  look  at  the  beautiful  clay  that 
was  to  occupy  it.  Sometimes  he  paused,  too,  to  listen 
to  the  shots  that  pealed  in  the  far  distance,  towards  the 
east,  whither  the  battle  had  long  since  rolled  out  of 
reach  and  almost  out  of  hearing.  It  seemed  to  have 
gathered  about  itself  the  whole  life  of  the  land,  attend- 
ing it  along  its  bloody  course  in  a  struggling  throng  of 
shouting,  shooting  men,  so  still  and  solitary  was  every- 
thing left  behind  it.  It  seemed  the  very  midland  solitude 
of  the  world  where  Septimius  was  delving  at  the  grave. 
He  and  his  dead  were  alone  together,  and  he  was  going 
to  put  the  body  under  the  sod,  and  be  quite  alone. 

The  grave  was  now  deep,  and  Septimius  was  stooping 
down  into  its  depths  among  dirt  and  pebbles,  levelling 
off  the  bottom,  which  he  considered  to  be  profound 
enough  to  hide  the  young  man's  mystery  forever,  when 
a  voice  spoke  above  him ;  a  solemn,  quiet  voice,  which 
he  knew  well. 

"  Septimius  !  what  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

He  looked  up  and  saw  the  minister. 

"I  have  slain  a  man  in  fair  fight,"  answered  he,  "and 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  43 

am  about  to  bury  him  as  he  requested.  I  am  glad  you 
are  come.  You,  reverend  sir,  can  fitly  say  a  prayer  at 
liis  obsequies.  I  am  glad  for  my  own  sake;  for  it  is 
very  lonely  and  terrible  to  be  here." 

He  climbed  out  of  the  grave,  and,  in  reply  to  the 
minister's  inquiries,  communicated  to  him  the  events  of 
the  morning,  and  the  youth's  strange  wish  to  be  buried 
here,  without  having  his  remains  subjected  to  the  hands 
of  those  who  would  prepare  it  for  the  grave.  The  min- 
ister hesitated. 

"At  an  ordinary  time,"  said  he,  "such  a  singular 
request  would  of  course  have  to  be  refused.  Your  own 
safety,  the  good  and  wise  rules  that  make  it  necessary 
that  all  things  relating  to  death  and  burial  should  bb 
done  publicly  and  in  order,  would  forbid  it." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Septimius ;  "  but,  it  may  bev  scores 
of  men  will  fall  to-day,  and  be  flung  into  hasty  graves 
without  funeral  rites;  without  its  ever  being  Known,  per. 
haps,  what  mother  has  lost  her  son.  I  cannot  but  think 
that  I  ought  to  perform  the  dying  request  of  the  youth 
whom  I  have  slain.  He  trusted  in  me  not  to  uncover  his 
body  myself,  nor  to  betray  it  to  the  hands  of  others." 

"  A  singular  request,"  said  the  good  minister,  gazing 
with  deep  interest  at  the  beautiful  dead  face,  and  grace, 
ful,  slender,  manly  figure.  "  What  could  have  been  its 
motive  ?  But  no  matter.  I  think,  Septimius,  that  you 
are  bound  to  obey  his  request ;  indeed,  having  promised 
him,  nothing  short  of  an  impossibility  should  prevent 
your  keeping  your  faith.  Let  us  lose  no  time,  then." 

"With  few  but  deeply  solemn  rites  the  young  stranger 
was  laid  by  the  minister  and  the  youth  who  slew  him  in 


44  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

bis  grave.  A  prayer  was  made,  and  then  Septimius, 
gathering  some  branches  and  twigs,  spread  them  over 
the  face  that  was  turned  upward  from  the  bottom  of  the 
pit,  into  which  the  sun  gleamed  downward,  throwing  its 
rays  so  as  almost  to  touch  it.  The  twigs  partially  hid 
it,  but  still  its  white  shone  through.  Then  the  minister 
threw  a  handful  of  earth  upon  it,  and,  accustomed  as 
he  was  to  burials,  tears  fell  from  his  eyes  along  with  the 
mould. 

"  It  is  sad,"  said  he,  "  this  poor  young  man,  coming 
from  opulence,  no  doubt,  a  dear  English  home,  to  die 
here  tor  no  end,  one  of  the  first-fruits  of  a  bloody  war, 
—  so  much  privately  sacrificed.  But  let  him  rest,  Sep- 
timius. 1  am  sorry  that  he  tell  by  your  hand,  though  it 
involves  no  shadow  of  a  crime.  But  death  is  a  thing 
too  serious  uot  to  melt  into  the  nature  of  a  man  like 
you." 

"  It  does  not  weigh  upon  my  conscience,  I  think,"  said 
Septimius ;  "  though  I  cannot  but  feel  sorrow,  and  wish 
my  hand  were  as  clean  as  yesterday.  It  is,  indeed, 
a  dreadful  thing  10  take  human  life." 

"  It  is  a  most  serious  thing,"  replied  the  minister ;  "  but 
perhaps  we  are  apt  to  over-estimate  the  importance  of 
death  at  any  particular  moment.  If  the  question  were 
whether  to  die  or  to  live  forever,  then,  indeed,  scarcely 
anything  should  justify  the  putting  a  fellow-creature  to 
death.  But  since  it  only  shortens  his  earthly  life,  and 
brings  a  little  forward  a  change  which,  since  God  per- 
mits it,  is,  we  may  conclude,  as  fit  to  take  place  then  as 
at  any  other  time,  it  alters  the  case.  I  often  think  that 
there  are  many  things  that  occur  to  us  in  our  daily  life, 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  45 

many  unknown  crises,  that  are  more  important  to  us 
than  this  mysterious  circumstance  of  death,  which  we 
deem  the  most  important  of  all.  All  we  uuderstand  of 
it  is,  that  it  takes  the  dead  person  away  from  our  knowl- 
edge of  him,  which,  while  we  live  with  him,  is  so  very 
scanty." 

"  You  estimate  at  nothing,  it  seems,  his  earthly  life, 
•which  might  have  been  so  happy." 

"At  next  to  nothing,"  said  the  minister;  "since,  as 
I  have  observed,  it  must,  at  any  rate,  have  closed  so 
soon." 

Septimius  thought  of  what  the  young  man,  in  his 
last  moments,  had  said  of  his  prospect  or  opportunity 
of  living  a  life  of  interminable  length,  and  which  pros- 
pect he  had  bequeathed  to  himself.  But  of  this  he  did 
not  speak  to  the  minister,  being,  indeed,  ashamed  to 
have  it  supposed  that  he  would  put  any  serious  weight 
on  such  a  bequest,  although  it  might  be  that  the  dark 
enterprise  of  his  nature  had  secretly  seized  upon  this 
idea,  and,  though  yet  sane  enough  to  be  influenced  by 
a  fear  of  ridicule,  was  busy  incorporating  it  with  his 
thoughts. 

So  Septimius  smoothed  down  the  young  stranger's 
earthy  bed,  and  returned  to  his  home,  where  he  hung 
up  the  sword  over  the  mantel-piece  in  his  study,  and 
hung  the  gold  watch,  too,  on  a  nail,  —  the  first  time  he 
had  ever  had  possession  of  such  a  thing.  Nor  did  he 
now  feel  altogether  at  ease  in  his  mind  about  keeping 
it,  —  the  time-measurer  of  one  whose  mortal  life  he  had 
cut  off.  A  splendid  watch  it  was,  round  as  a  turnip. 
There  seems  to  be  a  natural  right  in  one  who  has  slain 


46  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

a  man  to  step  into  his  vacant  place  in  all  respects  ;  and 
from  the  beginning  of  man's  dealings  with  man  this  right 
has  been  practically  recognized,  whether  among  warriors 
or  robbers,  as  paramount  to  every  other.  Yet  Septimius 
could  not  feel  easy  in  availing  himself  of  this  right.  He 
therefore  resolved  to  keep  the  watch,  and  even  the  sword 
and  fusil,  —  which  were  less  questionable  spoils  of  war, 
—  only  till  he  should  be  able  to  restore  them  to  some 
representative  of  the  young  officer.  The  contents  of  the 
purse,  in  accordance  with  the  request  of  the  dying  youth, 
he  would  expend  in  relieving  the  necessities  of  those 
whom  the  war  (now  broken  out,  and  of  which  no  one 
could  see  the  limit)  might  put  in  need  of  it.  The  min- 
iature, with  its  broken  and  shattered  face,  that  had  so 
vainly  interposed  itself  between  its  wearer  and  death,  had 
been  sent  to  its  address. 

But  as  to  the  mysterious  document,  the  written  paper, 
that  he  had  laid  aside  without  unfolding  it,  but  with  a 
care  that  betokened  more  interest  in  it  than  in  either 
gold  or  weapon,  or  even  in  the  golden  representative  of 
that  earthly  time  on  which  he  set  so  high  a  value. 
There  was  something  tremulous  in  his  touch  of  it;  it 
seemed  as  if  he  were  afraid  of  it  by  the  mode  in  which 
he  hid  it  away,  and  secured  himself  from  it,  as  it  were. 

This  done,  the  air  of  the  room,  the  low-ceilinged  east- 
ern room  where  he  studied  and  thought,  became  too 
close  for  him,  and  he  hastened  out ;  for  he  was  full  of 
the  unshaped  sense  of  all  that  had  befallen,  and  the  per- 
ception of  the  great  public  event  of  a  broken-out  war 
was  intermixed  with  that  of  what  he  had  done  personally 
in  the  great  struggle  that  was  beginning.  He  lo'nged, 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  47 

too,  to  know  what  was  the  news  of  the  battle  that  had 
gone  rolling  onward  along  the  hitherto  peaceful  country 
road,  converting  everywhere  (this  demon  of  war,  we 
mean),  with  one  blast  of  its  red  sulphurous  breath,  the 
peaceful  husbandman  to  a  soldier  thirsting  for  blood. 
He  turned  his  steps,  therefore,  towards  the  village,  think- 
ing it  probable  that  news  must  have  arrived  either  of 
defeat  or  victory,  from  messengers  or  fliers,  to  cheer  or 
sadden  the  old  men,  the  women,  and  the  children,  who 
alone  perhaps  remained  there. 

But  Septimius  did  not  get  to  the  village.  As  he 
passed  along  by  the  cottage  that  has  been  already  de- 
scribed, Rose  Garfield  was  standing  at  the  door,  peering 
anxiously  forth  to  know  what  was  the  issue  of  the  con- 
flict, —  as  it  has  been  woman's  fate  to  do  from  the  begin- 
ning of  the  world,  and  is  so  still.  Seeing  Septimius,  she 
forgot  the  restraint  that  she  had  hitherto  kept  herself 
under,  and,  flying  at  him  like  a  bird,  she  cried  out,  "  Sep- 
timius, dear  Septimius,  where  have  you  been  ?  What 
news  do  you  bring  ?  You  look  as  if  you  had  seen  some 
strange  and  dreadful  thing." 

"  Ah,  is  it  so  ?  Does  my  face  tell  such  stories  ?  "  ex- 
claimed the  young  man.  "I  did  not  mean  it  should. 
Yes,  Rose,  I  have  seen  and  done  such  things  as  change  a 
man  in  a  moment." 

"  Then  you  have  been  in  this  terrible  fight,"  said  Rose. 

"  Yes,  Rose,  I  have  had '  my  part  in  it,"  answered 
Septimius. 

He  was  on  the  point  of  relieving  his  overburdened 
mind  by  telling  her  what  had  happened  no  farther  off 
than  on  the  hill  above  them;  but,  seeing  her  excitement, 


48  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

and  recollecting  her  own  momentary  interview  with  the 
young  officer,  and  the  forced  intimacy  and  link  that  had 
been  established  between  them  by  the  kiss,  he  feared  to 
agitate  her  further  by  telling  her  that  that  gay  and  beau- 
tiful young  man  had  since  been  slain,  and  deposited  in  a 
bloody  grave  by  his  hands.  And  yet  the  recollection  of 
that  kiss  caused  a  thrill  of  vengeful  joy  at  the  thought 
that  the  perpetrator  had  since  expiated  his  offence  witli 
his  life,  and  that  it  was  himself  that  did  it,  so  deeply  was 
Septimius's  Indian  nature  of  revenge  and  blood  incor- 
porated with  that  of  more  peaceful  forefathers,  although 
Septimius  had  grace  enough  to  chide  down  that  bloody 
spirit,  feeling  that  it  made  him,  not  a  patriot,  but  a  mur- 
derer. 

"Ah,"  said  Rose,  shuddering,  "it  is  awful  when  we 
must  kill  one  another !  And  who  knows  where  it  will 
end?" 

"With  me  it  will  end  here,  Rose,"  said  Septimius. 
"  It  may  be  lawful  for  any  man,  even  if  he  have  devoted 
himself  to  God,  or  however  peaceful  his  pursuits,  to  fight 
to  the  death  when  the  enemy's  step  is  on  the  soil  of  his 
home;  but  only  for  that  perilous  juncture,  which  passed, 
he  should  return  to  his  own  way  of  peace.  I  have  done 
a  terrible  thing  for  once,  dear  Rose,  one  that  might  well 
trace  a  dark  line  through  all  my  future  life ;  but  hence- 
forth I  cannot  think  it  my  duty  to  pursue  any  further  a 
work  for  which  my  studies  and  my  nature  unfit  me." 

"  O  no  !  0  no !  "  said  Rose ;  "  never !  and  you  a 
minister,  or  soon  to  be  one.  There  must  be  some 
peacemakers  left  in  the  world,  or  everything  will  turn  to 
blood  and  confusion;  for  even  women  grow  dreadfully 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  49 

fierce  in  these  times.  My  old  grandmother  laments  her 
bedriddenness,  because,  she  says,  she  cannot  go  to  cheer 
ou  the  people  against  the  enemy.  But  she  remembers 
the  old  times  of  the  Indian  wars,  when  the  women  were 
as  much  in  danger  of  death  as  the  men,  and  so  were 
almost  as  fierce  as  they,  and  killed  men  sometimes  with 
their  own  hands.  But  women,  nowadays,  ought  to  be 
gentler ;  let  the  men  be  fierce,  if  they  must,  except  you, 
and  such  as  you,  Septimius." 

"Ah,  dear  Rose,"  said  Septimius,  "I  have  not  the 
kind  and  sweet  impulses  that  you  speak  of.  I  need 
something  to  soften  and  warm  my  cold,  hard  life  ;  some- 
thing to  make  me  feel  how  dreadful  this  time  of  warfare 
is.  I  need  you,  dear  Rose,  who  are  all  kindness  of  heart 
and  mercy." 

And  here  Septimius,  hurried  away  by  I  know  not 
what  excitement  of  the  time,  —  the  disturbed  state  of 
the  country,  his  own  ebullition  of  passion,  the  deed  he 
had  done,  the  desire  to  press  one  human  being  close  to 
his  life,  because  he  had  shed  the  blood  of  another,  his 
half-formed  purposes,  his  shapeless  impulses;  in  short, 
being  affected  by  the  whole  stir  of  his  nature,  —  spoke 
to  Rose  of  love,  and  with  an  energy  that,  indeed,  there 
was  no  resisting  when  once  it  broke  bounds.  And  Rose, 
whose  maiden  thoughts,  to  say  the  truth,  had  long  dwelt 
upon  this  young  man,  —  admiring  him  for  a  certain  dark 
beauty,  knowing  him  familiarly  from  childhood,  and  yet 
having  the  sense,  that  is  so  bewitching,  of  remoteness, 
intermixed  with  intimacy,  because  he  was  so  unlike  her- 
self; having  a  woman's  respect  for  scholarship,  her  im- 
agination the  more  impressed  by  all  in  him  that  she  could 


50  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

not  comprehend,  —  Rose  yielded  to  his  impetuous  suit, 
and  gave  him  the  troth  that  he  requested.  And  yet  it 
was  with  a  sort  of  reluctance  and  drawing  back;  her 
whole  nature,  her  secretest  heart,  her  deepest  woman- 
hood, perhaps,  did  not  consent.  There  was  something 
in  Septimius,  in  his  wild,  mixed  nature,  the  monstrous- 
ness  that  had  grown  out  of  his  hybrid  race,  the  black 
infusions,  too,  which  melancholic  men  had  left  there, 
the  devilishness  that  had  been  symbolized  in  the  popu- 
lar regard  about  his  family,  that  made  her  shiver,  even 
while  she  came  the  closer  to  him  for  that  very  dread. 
And  when  he  gave  her  the  kiss  of  betrothment  her  lips 
grew  white.  If  it  had  not  been  in  the  day  of  turmoil, 
if  he  had  asked  her  in  any  quiet  time,  when  Rose's  heart 
was  in  its  natural  mood,  it  may  well  be  that,  with  tears 
and  pity  for  him,  and  half-pity  for  herself,  Rose  would 
have  told  Septimius  that  she  did  not  think  «she  could 
love  him  well  enough  to  be  his  wife. 

And  how  was  it  with  Septimius?  Well;  there  was 
a  singular  correspondence  in  his  feelings  to  those  of 
Rose  Garfield.  At  first,  carried  away  by  a  passion  that 
seized  him  all  unawares,  and  seemed  to  develop  itself  all 
in  a  moment,  he  felt,  and  so  spoke  to  Rose,  so  pleaded 
his  suit,  as  if  his  whole  earthly  happiness  depended  on 
her  consent  to  be  his  bride.  It  seemed  to  him  that  her 
love  would  be  the  sunshine  in  the  gloomy  dungeon  of 
his  life.  But  when  her  bashful,  downcast,  tremulous 
consent  was  given,  then  immediately  came  a  strange 
misgiving  into  his  mind.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  taken  to 
himself  something  good  and  beautiful  doubtless  in  itself, 
but  which  might  be  the  exchange  for  one  more  suited 


SEPTIMIUS    TEUTON.  51 

to  him,  that  he  must  now  give  op.  The  intellect,  which 
was  the  prominent  point  in  Septimius,  stirred  and  heaved, 
crying  out  vaguely  that  its  own  claims,  perhaps,  were 
ignored  in  this  contract.  Septimius  had  perhaps  no 
right  to  love  at  all;  if  he  did,  it  should  have  been  a 
woman  of  another  make,  who  could  be  his  intellectual 
companion  and  helper.  And  then,  perchance,  —  per- 
chance, —  there  was  destined  for  him  some  high,  lonely 
path,  in  which,  to  make  any  progress,  to  come  to  any 
end,  he  must  walk  unburdened  by  the  affections.  Such 
thoughts  as  these  depressed  and  chilled  (as  many  men 
have  found  them,  or  similar  ones,  to  do)  the  moment  of 
success  that  should  have  been  the  most  exulting  in  the 
world.  And  so,  in  the  kiss  which  these  two  lovers  had 
exchanged  there  was,  after  all,  something  that  repelled ; 
and  when  they  parted  they  wondered  at  their  strange 
states  of  mind,  but  would  not  acknowledge  that  they 
had  done  a  thing  that  ought  not  to  have  been  done. 
Nothing  is  surer,  however,  than  that,  if  we  suffer  our- 
selves to  be  drawn  into  too  close  proximity  with  people, 
if  we  over-estimate  the  degree  of  our  proper  tendency 
towards  them,  or  theirs  towards  us,  a  reaction  is  sure  to 
Mow. 

Septimius  quitted  Rose,  and  resumed  his  walk  towards 
the  village.  But  now  it  was  near  sunset,  and  there  be- 
gan to  be  straggling  passengers  along  the  road,  some  of 
whom  came  slowly,  as  if  they  had  received  hurts;  all 
seemed  wearied.  Among  them  one  form  appeared  which 
Rose  soon  found  that  she  recognized.  It  was  Robert 
Hagburn,  with  a  shattered  firelock  in  his  hand,  broken 


52,  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

at  the  butt,  and  his  left  arm  bound  with  a  fragment  of 
his  shirt,  and  suspended  in  a  handkerchief;  and  he 
walked  weariedly,  but  brightened  up  at  sight  of  Rose, 
as  if  ashamed  to  let  her  see  how  exhausted  and  dispirited 
he  was.  Perhaps  he  expected  a  smile,  at  least  a  more 
earnest  reception  than  he  met;  for  Rose,  with  the  re- 
straint of  what  had  recently  passed  drawing  her  back, 
merely  went  gravely  a  few  steps  to  meet  him,  and  said, 
"Robert,  how  tired  and  pale  you  look!  Are  you 
hurt?" 

"  It  is  of  no  consequence,"  replied  Robert  Hagburn ; 
"  a  scratch  on  my  left  arm  from  an  officer's  sword,  with 
whose  head  my  gunstock  made  instant  acquaintance. 
It  is  no  matter,  Rose ;  you  do  not  care  for  it,  nor  do  I 
either." 

"  How  can  you  say  so,  Robert  ?  "  she  replied.  But 
without  more  greeting  he  passed  her,  and  went  into  his 
own  house,  where,  flinging  himself  into  a  chair,  he  re- 
mained in  that  despondency  that  men  generally  feel  after 
a  fight,  even  if  a  successful  one. 

Septimius,  the  next  day,  lost  no  time  in  writing  a 
letter  to  the  direction  given  him  by  the  young  officer, 
conveying  a  brief  account  of  the  latter's  death  and  burial, 
and  a  signification  that  he  held  in  readiness  to  give  up 
certain  articles  of  property,  at  any  future  time,  to  his 
representatives,  mentioning  also  the  amount  of  money 
contained  in  the  purse,  and  his  intention,  in  compliance 
with  the  verbal  will  of  the  deceased,  to  expend  it  in 
alleviating  the  wants  of  prisoners.  Having  so  done,  he 
went  up  on  the  hill  to  look  at  the  grave,  and  satisfy  him- 
self that  the  scene  there  had  not  been  a  dream ;  a  point 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  53 

which  he  was-  inclined  to  question,  in  spite  of  the  tangible 
evidence  of  the  sword  and  watch,  which  still  hung  over 
the  mantel-piece.  There  was  the  little  mound,  however, 
looking  so  iiicontrovertibly  a  grave,  that  it  seemed  to  him 
as  if  all  the  world  must  see  it,  and  wonder  at  the  fact  of 
its  being  there,  and  spend  their  wits  in  conjecturing  who 
slept  within ;  and,  indeed,  it  seemed  to  give  the  affair  a 
questionable  character,  this  secret  burial,  and  he  wondered 
and  wondered  why  the  young  man  had  been  so  earnest 
about  it.  Well ;  there  was  the  grave ;  and,  moreover, 
on  the  leafy  earth,  where  the  dying  youth  had  lain,  there 
were  traces  of  blood,  which  no  rain  had  yet  washed 
away.  Septimius  wondered  at  the  easiness  with  which 
he  acquiesced  in  this  deed';  in  fact,hfc-fclt  in  a  slight 
degree  the  effects  of  that  taste  of  blood,  which  makes 
the  slaying  of  men,  like  any  other  abuse,  sometimes  } 
become  a  passion.  Perhaps  it  was  his  Indian  trait 
stirring  in  him  again;  at  any  rate,  it  is  not  delightful 
to  observe  how  readily  man  Becomes  a  blood-shedding 
animal. 

Looking  down  from  the  hill-top,  he  saw  the  little 
dwelling  of  Rose  Garfield,  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
girl  herself,  passing  the  windows  or  the  door,  about  her 
household  duties,  and  listened  to  hear  the  singing  which 
usually  broke  out  of  her.  But  Rose,  for  some  reason  or 
other,  did  not  warble  as  usual  this  morning.  She  trod 
about  silently,  and  somehow  or  other  she  was  translated 
out  of  the  ideality  in  which  Septimius  .usually  enveloped 
her,  and  looked  little  more  than  a  New  England  girl, 
very  pretty  indeed,  but  not  enough  so  perhaps  to  engross 
a  man's  life  and  higher  purposes  into  her  own  narrow 


54.  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

circle ;  so,  at  least,  Septimius  thought.  Looking  a  little 
farther,  —  down  iuto  the  green  recess  where  stood  Robert 
Hagburn's  house,  —  he  saw  that  young  man,  looking 
very  pale,  with  his  arm  in  a  sling  sitting  listlessly  on  a 
half-chopped  log  of  wood  which  was  not  likely  soon  to  be 
severed  by  Robert's  axe.  Like  other  lovers,  Septimius 
had  not  failed  to  be  aware  that  Robert  Hagburn  was  sen- 
sible to  Rose  Garfield's  attractions ;  and  now,  as  he  looked 
down  on  them  both  from  his  elevated  position,  he  won- 
dered if  it  would  not  have  been  better  for  Rose's  happi- 
ness if  her  thoughts  and  virgin  fancies  had  settled  on 
that  frank,  cheerful,  able,  wholesome  young  man,  instead 
of  on  himself,  who  met  her  on  so  few  points;  and,  iu 
relation  to  whom,  there  was  perhaps  a  plant  that  had  its 
root  in  the  grave,  that  would  entwine  itself  around  his 
whole  life,  overshadowing  it  with  dark,  rich  foliage  and 
fruit  that  he  alone  could  feast  upon. 

For  the  sombre  imagination  of  Septimius,  though  he 
kept  it  as  much  as  possible  away  from  the  subject,  still 
kept  hinting  and  whispering,  still  coming  back  to  the 
point,  still  secretly  suggesting  that  the  event  of  yesterday 
was  to  have  momentous  consequences  upon  his  fate. 

He  had  not  yet  looked  at  the  paper  which  the  young 
man  bequeathed  to  him ;  he  had  laid  it  away  unopened  ; 
not  that  he  felt  little  interest  in  it,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
because  he  looked  for  some  blaze  of  light  which  had  been 
reserved  for  him  alone.  The  young  officer  had  been  only 
the  bearer  of  it  to  him,  and  he  had  come  hither  to  die  by 
his  hand,  because  that  was  the  readiest  way  by  which  he 
could  deliver  his  message.  How  else,  in  the  infinite 
chances  of  human  affairs,  could  the  document  have  found 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  55 

its  way  to  its  destined  possessor  ?  Thus  mused  Septim- 
ius,  pacing  to  and  fro  on  the  level  edge  of  his  hill-top, 
apart  from  the  world,  looking  down  occasionally  into  it, 
and  seeing  its  love  and  interest  away  from  him ;  while 
Hose,  it  might  be  looking  upward,  saw  occasionally  his 
passing  figure,  and  trembled  at  the  nearness  and  remote- 
ness that  existed  between  them  ;  and  Robert  Hagbura 
looked  too,  and  wondered  what  manner  of  man  it  was 
who,  having  won  Rose  Garfield  (for  his  instinct  told  him 
this  was  so),  could  keep  that  distance  between  her  and 
him,  thinking  remote  thoughts. 

Yes  ;  there  was  Septimius,  treading  a  path  of  his  own 
on  the  hill-top  ;  his  feet  began  only  that  morning  to  wear 
it  in  his  walking  to  and  fro,  sheltered  from  the  lower 
world,  except  in  occasional  glimpses,  by  the  birches  and 
locusts  that  threw  up  their  foliage  from  the  hillside.  But 
many  a  year  thereafter  he  continued  to  tread  that  path, 
till  it  was  worn  deep  with  his  footsteps  and  trodden 
down  hard ;  and  it  was  believed  by  some  of  his  supersti- 
tious neighbors  that  the  grass  and  little  shrubs  shrank 
away  from  his  path,  and  made  it  wider  on  that  account; 
because  there  was  something  in  the  broodings  that  urged 
him  to  and  fro  along  the  path  alien  to  nature  and  its  pro- 
ductions. There  was  another  opinion,  too,  that  an  invisi- 
ble fiend,  one  of  his  relatives  by  blood,  walked  side  by 
side  with  him,  and  so  made  the  pathway  wider  than  his 
single  footsteps  could  have  made  it.  But  all  this  was 
idle,  and  was,  indeed,  only  the  foolish  babble  that  hovers 
like  a  mist  about  men  who  withdraw  themselves  from  the 
throng,  and  involve  themselves  in  unintelligible  pursuits 
and  interests  of  their  own.  For  the  present,  the  small 


56  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

world,  which  alone  knew  of  him,  considered  Septimius  as 
a  studious  young  man,  who  was  fitting  for  the  ministry, 
and  was  likely  enough  to  do  credit  to  the  ministerial 
blood  that  he  drew  from  his  ancestors,  in  spite  of  the 
wild  stream  that  the  Indian  priest  had  contributed ;  and 
perhaps  none  the  worse,  as  a  clergyman,  for  having  an 
instinctive  sense  of  the  uature  of  the  Devil  from  his  tradi- 
tionary claims  to  partake  of  his  blood.  But  what  strange 
interest  there  is  in  tracing  out  the  first  steps  by  which  we 
enter  on  a  career  that  influences  our  life ;  and  this  deep- 
worn  pathway  on  the  hill-top,  passing  and  repassiug  by  a 
grave,  seemed  to  symbolize  it  in  Septimius's  case. 

I  suppose  the  morbidness  of  Septimius's  disposition 
was  excited  by  the  circumstances  which  had  put  the  paper 
into  his  possession.  Had  he  received  it  by  post,  it  might 
not  have  impressed  him ;  he  might  possibly  have  looked 
over  it  with  ridicule,  and  tossed  it  aside.  But  he  had 
taken  it  from  a  dying  man,  and  he  felt  '-hat  his  fate  was 
in  it ;  and  truly  it  turned  out  to  be  so.  He  waited  for  a 
fit  opportunity  to  opej^it  and  read  it ;  he  put  it  off  as  if 
he  cared  nothing  about  it ;  but  perhaps  it  was  because  he 
cared  so  much.  Whenever  he  had  a  happy  time  with 
Rose  (and,  moody  as  Septimius  was,  such  happy  moments 
came),  he  felt  that  then  was  not  the  time  to  look  into  the- 
paper,  —  it  was  not  to  be  read  in  a  happy  mood. 

Once  he  asked  Rose  to  walk  with  him  on  the  hill- 
top. 

"Why,  what  a  path  you  have  worn  here,  Septimius !  " 
said  the  girl.  "  You  walk  miles  and  miles  on  this  one 
spot,  and  get  no  farther  on  than  when  you  started.  That 
is  strange  walking  !  " 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  57 

"  I  don't  know,  Rose ;  I  sometimes  thiuk  I  get  a 
little  omvard.  But  it  is  sweeter  —  yes,  much  sweeter, 
I  fiud  —  to  have  you  walking  on  this  path  here  than  to 
be  treading  it  alone." 

"I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  Rose;  "for  sometimes, 
when  I  look  up  here,  and  see  you  through  the  branches, 
with  your  head  bent  down  and  your  hands  clasped 
behind  you,  treading,  treading,  treading,  always  in  one 
way,  I  wonder  whether  I  am  at  all  in  your  mind.  I 
don't  think,  Septiniius,"  added  she,  looking  up  in  his  face 
and  smiling,  "that  ever  a  girl  had  just  such  a  young 
man  for  a  lover." 

"  No  young  man  ever  had  such  a  girl,  I  am  sure," 
said  Septimius ;  "  so  sweet,  so  good  for  him,  so  prolific 
of  good  influences !  " 

"  Ah,  it  makes  me  thiuk  well  of  myself  to  bring  such 
a  smile  into  your  face !  But,  Septimius,  what  is  this 
little  hillock  here  so  close  to  our  path  ?  Have  you 
heaped  it  up  here  for  a  seat  ?  Shall  we  sit  down  upon  it 
for  an  instant  ?  —  for  it  makes  me  more  tired  to  walk 
backward  and  forward  on  one  path  thau  to  go  straight 
forward  a  much  longer  distance." 

"  Well ;  but  we  will  not  sit  down  on  this  hillock," 
said  Septimius,  drawing  her  away  from  it.  "  Farther  out 
this  way,  if  you  please,  Rose,  where  we  shall  have  a  better 
view  over  the  wide  plain,  the  valley,  and  the  long,  tame 
ridge  of  hills  on  the  other  side,  shutting  it  in  like  human 
life.  It  is  a  landscape  that  never  tires,  though  it  has 
nothing  striking  about  it ;  and  I  am  glad  that  there  are 
no  great  hills  to  be  thrusting  themselves  into  my 
thoughts,  and  crowding  out  better  things.  It  might  be 
3* 


58  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

desirable,  in  some  states  of  mind,  to  have  a  glimpse  of 
water,  —  to  have  the  lake  that  once  must  have  covered 
this  green  valley,  —  because  water  reflects  the  sky,  and 
so  is  like  religion  in  life,  the  spiritual  element." 

"  There  is  the  brook  running  through  it,  though  we  do 
not  see  it,"  replied  Rose ;  "  a  torpid  little  brook,  to  be 
sure ;  but,  as  you  say,  it  has  heaven  in  its  bosom,  like 
Walden  Pond,  or  any  wider  one." 

As  they  sat  together  on  the  hill-top,  they  could  look 
down  into  Robert  Hagburn's  enclosure,  and  they  saw 
him,  with  his  arm  now  relieved  from  the  sling,  walking 
about,  in  a  very  erect  manner,  with  a  middle-aged  man 
by  his  side,  to  whom  he  seemed  to  be  talking  and  explain- 
ing some  matter.  Even  at  that  distance  Septimius  could 
see  that  the  rustic  stoop  and  uncouthness  had  somehow 
fallen  away  from  Robert,  and  that  he  seemed  devel- 
oped. 

"  What  has  come  to  Robert  Hagburn  ? "  said  he. 
"  He  looks  like  another  man  than  the  lout  I  knew  a  few 
weeks  ago." 

"  Nothing,"  said  Rose  Garfield,  "  except  what  comes 
to  a  good  many  young  men  nowadays.  He  has  enlisted, 
and  is  going  to  the  war.  It  is  a  pity  for  his  mother." 

"  A  great  pity,"  said  Septimius.  "  Mothers  are  greatly 
to  be  pitied  all  over  the  country  just  now,  and  there  are 
some  even  more  to  be  pitied  than  the  mothers,  though 
many  of  them  do  not  know  or  suspect  anything  about 
their  cause  of  grief  at  present." 

"  Of  whom  do  you  speak  ?  "  asked  Rose. 

"I  mean  those  many  good  and  sweet  young  girls," 
said  Septimius,  "  who  would  have  been  happy  wives  to 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  59 

flie  thousands  of  young  men  who  now,  like  Robert  Hag- 
burn,  are  going  to  the  war.  Those  young  men  —  many 
of  them  at  least  —  will  sicken  and  die  in  camp,  or  be  shot 
down,  or  struck  through  with  bayonets  on  battle-fields, 
and  turn  to  dust  and  bones ;  while  the  girls  that  would 
have  loved  them,  and  made  happy  firesides  for  them,  will 
pine  and  wither,  and  tread  along  many  sour  and  discon- 
tented years,  and  at  last  go  out  of  life  without  knowing 
what  life  is.  So  you  see,  Rose,  every  shot  that  takes  ef- 
fect kills  two  at  least,  or  kills  one  and  worse  than  kills 
the  other." 

"  No  woman  will  live  single  on  account  of  poor  Robert 
Hagbuni  being  shot,"  said  Rose,  with  a  change  of  tone  ; 
"  for  he  would  never  be  married  were  he  to  stay  at  home 
and  plough  the  field." 

"  How  can  you  tell  that,  Rose  ?  "  asked  Septimius. 

Rose  did  not  tell  how  she  came  to  know  so  much  about 
Robert  Hagburn's  matrimonial  purposes ;  but  after  this 
little  talk  it  appeared  as  if  something  had  risen  up  be- 
tween them,  —  a  sort  of  mist,  a  medium,  in  which  their 
intimacy  was  not  increased  ;  for  the  flow  and  interchange 
of  sentiment  was  balked,  and  they  took  only  one  or  two 
turns  in  silence  along  Septimius's  trodden  path.  I  don't 
know  exactly  what  it  was ;  but  there  are  cases  in  which 
it  is  inscrutably  revealed  to  persons  that  they  have  made 
a  mistake  in  what  is  of  the  highest  concern  to  them ; 
and  this  truth  often  comes  in  the  shape  of  a  vague  de- 
pression of  the  spirit,  like  a  vapor  settling  down  on  a 
landscape;  a  misgiving,  coming  and  going  perhaps,  a 
lack  of  perfect  certainty.  Whatever  it  was,  Rose  and 
Septimius  had  no  more  tender  and  playful  words  that 


60  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

day  ;  and  Rose  soon  went  to  look  after  her  grandmother, 
and  Septimius  went  and  shut  himself  up  in  his  study, 
after  making  an  arrangement  to  meet  Rose  the  next 
day. 

Septimius  shut  himself  up,  and  drew  forth  the  docu- 
ment which  the  young  officer,  with  that  singular  smile  on 
his  dying  face,  had  bequeathed  to  him  as  the  reward  of 
his  death.  It  was  in  a  covering  of  folded  parchment, 
right  through  which,  as  aforesaid,  was  a  bullet-hole  and 
some  stains  of  blood.  Septimius  unrolled  the  parchment 
cover,  and  found  inside  a  manuscript,  closely  written  in 
a  crabbed  hand ;  so  crabbed,  indeed,  that  Septimius  could 
not  at  first  read  a  word  of  it,  nor  even  satisfy  himself  in. 
what  language  it  was  written.  There  seemed  to  be  Latin 
words,  and  some  interspersed  ones  in  Greek  characters, 
and  here  and  there  he  could  doubtfully  read  an  English 
sentence ;  but,  on  the  whole,  it  was  an  unintelligible 
mass,  conveying  somehow  an  idea  that  it  was  the  fruit 
of  vast  labor  and  erudition,  emanating  from  a  mind  very 
full  of  books,  and  grinding  and  pressing  down  the  great 
accumulation  of  grapes  that  it  had  gathered  from  so 
many  vineyards,  and  squeezing  out  rich  viscid  juices,  — 
potent  wine,  —  with  which  the  reader  might  get  drunk. 
Some  of  it,  moreover,  seemed,  for  the  further  mystifica- 
tion of  the  officer,  to  be  written  in  cipher ;  a  needless 
precaution,  it  might  seem,  when  the  writer's  natural  chi- 
rography  was  so  full  of  puzzle  and  bewilderment. 

Septimius  looked  at  this  strange  manuscript,  and  it 
shook  in  his  hands  as  he  held  it  before  his  eyes,  so 
great  was  his  excitement.  Probably,  doubtless,  it  was 


SEPTIMIUS   FELTON.  61 

in  a  great  measure  owing  to  the  way  in  which  it  came 
to  him,  with  such  circumstances  of  tragedy  and  mys- 
tery; as  if  —  so  secret  and  so  important  was  it  —  it 
could  not  be  within  the  knowledge  of  two  persons  at 
once,  and  therefore  it  was  necessary  that  one  should  die 
in  the  act  of  transmitting  it  to  the  hand  of  another, 
the  destined  possessor,  inheritor,  profiter  by  it.  By  the 
bloody  hand,  as  all  the  great  possessions  in  this  world 
have  been  gained  and  inherited,  he  had  succeeded  to 
the  legacy,  the  richest  that  mortal  man  ever  could  re- 
ceive. He  pored  over  the  inscrutable  sentences,  and 
wondered,  when  he  should  succeed  in  reading  one,  if  it 
might  summon  up  a  subject-fiend,  appearing  with  thun- 
der and  devilish  demonstrations.  And  by  what  other 
strange  chance  had  the  document  come  into  the  hand 
of  him  who  alone  was  fit  to  receive  it  ?  It  seemed  to 
Septimius,  in  his  enthusiastic  egotism,  as  if  the  whole 
chain  of  events  had  been  arranged  purposely  for  this 
end;  a  difference  had  come  between  two  kindred  peo- 
ples; a -war  had  broken  out;  a  young  officer,  with  the 
traditions  of  an  old  family  represented  in  his  line,  had 
marched,  and  had  met  with  a  peaceful  student,  who  had 
been  incited  from  high  and  noble  motives  to  take  his 
life ;  then  came  a  strange,  brief  intimacy,  in  which  his 
victim  made  the  slayer  his  heir.  All  these  chances,  as 
they  seemed,  all  these  interferences  of  Providence,  as 
they  doubtless  were,  had  been  necessary  in  order  to  put 
this  manuscript  into  the  hands  of  Septimius,  who  now 
pored  over  it,  and  could  not  with  certainty  read  one 
word! 

But  this  did  not  trouble  him,  except  for  the  momen- 


62  SEPTIMITJS    FELTON. 

tary  delay.  Because  he  felt  well  assured  that  the  strong, 
concentrated  study  that  he  would  bring  to  it  would 
remove  all  difficulties,  as  the  rays  of  a  lens  melt  stones ; 
as  the  telescope  pierces  through  densest  light  of  stars, 
and  resolves  them  into  their  individual  brilliancies.  He  » 
could  afford  to  spend  years  upon  it  if  it  were  necessary ; 
but  earnestness  and  application  should  do  quickly  the 
work  of  years. 

Amid  these  musings  he  was  interrupted  by  his  Aunt 
Keziah ;  though  generally  observant  enough  of  her 
nephew's  studies,  and  feeling  a  sanctity  in  them,  both 
because  of  his  intending  to  be  a  minister  and  because  she 
had  a  great  reverence  for  learning,  even  if  heathenish, 
this  good  old  lady  summoned  Septimius  somewhat  per- 
emptorily to  chop  wood  for  her  domestic  purposes. 
How  strange  it  is,  —  the  way  in  which  we  are  summoned 
from  all  high  purposes  by  these  little  homely  necessities ; 
all  symbolizing  the  great  fact  that  the  earthly  part  of  us, 
with  its  demands,  takes  up  the  greater  portion  of  all  our 
available  force.  So  Septimius,  grumbling  and  groaning, 
went  to  the  wood-shed  and  exercised  himself  for  an  hour 
as  the  old  lady  requested ;  and  it  was  only  by  instinct 
that  he  worked,  hardly  conscious  what  he  was  doing. 
The  whole  of  passing  life  seemed  impertinent ;  or  if,  for 
an  instant,  it  seemed  otherwise,  then  his  lonely  specula- 
tions and  plans  seemed  to  become  impalpable,  and  to 
have  only  the  consistency  of  vapor,  which  his  utmost 
concentration  succeeded  no  further  than  to  make  into  i  lie 
likeness  of  absurd  faces,  mopping,  mowing,  and  laughing 
at  him. 

But  that  sentence  of  mystic  meaning  shone  out  before 


SEPTIMIUS   FELTON.  63 

him  like  a  transparency,  illuminated  in  the  darkness  of 
his  mind  ;  he  determined  to  take  it  for  his  motto  until  he 
should  be  victorious  in  his  quest.  When  he  took  his 
candle,  to  retire  apparently  to  bed,  he  again  drew  forth 
the  manuscript,  and,  sitting  down  by  the  dim  light,  tried 
vainly  to  read  it ;  but  he  could  not  as  yet  settle  himself 
to  concentrated  and  regular  effort ;  he  kept  turning  the 
leaves  of  the  manuscript,  in  the  hope  that  some  other 
illuminated  sentence  might  gleam  out  upon  him,  as  the 
first  had  done,  and  shed  a  light  on  the  context  around  it ; 
and  that  then  another  would  be  discovered,  with  similar 
effect,  until  the  whole  document  would  thus  be  illumina- 
ted with  separate  stars  of  light,  converging  and  concen- 
trating in  one  radiance  that  should  make  the  whole  visi- 
ble. But  such  was  his  bad  fortune,  not  another  word  of 
the  manuscript  was  he  able  to  read  that  whole  evening  ; 
and,  moreover,  while  he  had  still  an  inch  of  candle  left, 
Aunt  Keziah,  in  her  nightcap,  —  as  witch-like  a  figure 
as  ever  went  to  a  wizard  meeting  in  the  forest  with  Sep- 
timius's  ancestor, — appeared  at  the  door  of  the  room, 
aroused  from  her  bed,  and  shaking  her  finger  at  him. 

"  Septimius,"  said  she,  "  you  keep  me  awake,  and  you 
will  ruin  your  eyes,  and  turn  your  head,  if  you  study  till 
midnight  in  this  manner.  You  '11  never  live  to  be  a  min- 
ister, if  this  is  the  way  you  go  on." 

"  Well,  well,  Aunt  Keziah,"  said  Septimius,  covering 
his  manuscript  with  a  book,  "  I  am  just  going  to  bed 
now." 

"Good  night,  then,"  said  the  old  woman  ;  "and  God 
bless  your  labors." 

Strangely  enough,  a  glance  at  the  manuscript,  as  he 


64  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

hid  it  from  the  old  woman,  had  seemed  to  Septimius  to 
reveal  another  sentence,  of  which  he  *  had  imperfectly 
caught  the  purport ;  and  when  she  had  gone,  he  in  vain 
sought  the  place,  and  vainly,  too,  endeavored  to  recall 
the  meaning  of  what  he  had  read.  Doubtless  his  fancy 
exaggerated  the  importance  of  the  sentence,  and  he  felt 
as  if  it  might  have  vanished  from  the  book  forever.  In 
fact,  the  unfortunate  young  man,  excited  and  tossed  to 
and  fro  by  a  variety  of  unusual  impulses,  was  got  into  a 
bad  way,  and  was  likely  enough  to  go  mad,  unless  the 
balancing  portion  of  his  mind  proved  to  be  of  greater  vol- 
ume and  effect  than  as  yet  appeared  to  be  the  case. 

The  next  morning  he  was  up,  bright  and  early,  poring 
over  the  manuscript  with  the  sharpened  wits  of  the  new 
day,  peering  into  its  night,  into  its  old,  blurred,  forgotten 
dream ;  and,  indeed,  he  had  been  dreaming  about  it,  and 
was  fully  possessed  with  the  idea  that,  in  his  dream,  he 
had  taken  up  the  inscrutable  document,  and  read  it  off  as 
glibly  as  he  would  the  page  of  a  modern  drama,  in  a 
continual  rapture  with  the  deep  truth  that  it  made  clear 
to  his  comprehension,  and  the  lucid  way  in  which  it 
evolved  the  mode  in  which  man  might  be  restored  to  his 
originally  undying  state.  So  strong  was  the  impression, 
that  when  he  unfolded  the  manuscript,  it  was  with  almost 
the  belief  that  the  crabbed  old  handwriting  would  be  plain 
to  him.  Such  did  not  prove  to  be  the  case,  however ;  so 
far  from  it,  that  poor  Septimius  in  vain  turned  over  the 
yellow  pages  in  quest  of  the  one  sentence  which  he 
had  been  able,  or  fancied  he  had  been  able,  to  read 
yesterday.  The  illumination  that  had  brought  it  out  wa« 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  65 

now  faded,  and  all  was  a  blur,  an  inscrutableness,  a  scrawl 
of  unintelligible  characters  alike.  So  much  did  this  affect 
him,  that  he  had  almost  a  mind  to  tear  it  into  a  thou- 
sand fragments,  and  scatter  it  out  of  the  window  to  the 
west -wind,  that  was  then  blowing  past  the  house  ;  and  if, 
in  that  summer  season,  there  had  been  a  fire  on  the 
hearth,  it  is  possible  that  easy  realization  of  a  destructive 
impulse  might  have  incited  him  to  fling  the  accursed 
scrawl  into  the  hottest  of  the  flames,  and  thus  returned  it 
to  the  Devil,  who,  he  suspected,  was  the  original  author 
of  it.  Had  he  done  so,  what  strange  and  gloomy  pas- 
sages would  I  have  been  spared  the  pain  of  relating ! 
How  different  would  have  been  the  life  of  Septimius, — 
a  thoughtful  preacher  of  God's  word,  taking  severe  but 
conscientious  views  of  man's  state  and  relations,  a  heavy- 
browed  walker  and  worker  on  earth,  and,  finally,  a  slum- 
berer  in  an  honored  grave,  with  an  epitaph  bearing  testi- 
mony to  his  great  usefulness  in  his  generation. 

But,  in  the  mean  time,  here  was  the  troublesome  day 
passing  over  him,  and  pestering,  bewildering,  and  tripping 
him  up  with  its  mere  sublunary  troubles,  as  the  days 
will  all  of  us  the  moment  we  try  to  do  anything  that  we 
flatter  ourselves  is  of  a  little  more  importance  than  others 
are  doing.  Aunt  Keziah  tormented  him  a  great  while 
about  the  rich  field,  just  across  the  road,  in  front  of  the 
house,  which  Septimius  had  neglected  the  cultivation  of, 
unwilling  to  spare  the  time  to  plough,  to  plant,  to  hoe  it 
himself,  but  hired  a  lazy  lout  of  the  village,  when  lie 
might  just  as  well  have  employed  and  paid  wages  to  the 
scarecrow  which  Aunt  Keziah  dressed  out  in  ancient  habili- 
ments, and  set  up  in  the  midst  of  the  corn.  Then  came 


66  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

an  old  codger  from  the  village,  talking  to  Septimius  about 
the  war,—  a  theme  of  which  he  was  weary :  telling  the 
rumor  of  skirmishes  that  the  next  day  would  prove  to  be 
false,  of  battles  that  were  immediately  to  take  place,  of 
encounters  with  the  enemy  in  which  our  side  showed  the 
valor  of  twenty-fold  heroes,  but  had  to  retreat ;  babbling 
about  shells  and  mortars,  battalions,  manoeuvres,  angles, 
fascines,  and  other  items  of  military  art;  for  war  had 
filled  the  whole  brain  of  the  people,  and  enveloped  the 
whole  thought  of  man  in  a  mist  of  gunpowder. 

In  this  way,  sitting  on  his  doorstep,  or  in  the  very 
study,  haunted  by  such  speculations,  this  wretched  old 
man  would  waste  the  better  part  of  a  summer  after- 
noon, while  Septimius  listened,  returning  abstracted 
monosyllables,  answering  amiss,  and  wishing  his  per- 
secutor jammed  into  one  of  the  cannons  he  talked  about, 
and  fired  off,  to  end  his  interminable  babble  in  one  roar ; 
[talking]  of  great  officers  coming  from  France  and  other 
countries ;  of  overwhelming  forces  from  England,  to  put 
an  end  to  the  war  at  once ;  of  the  unlikelihood  that  it 
ever  should  be  ended;  of  its  hopelessness;  of  its  cer- 
tainty of  a  good  and  speedy  end. 

Then  came  limping  along  the  lane  a  disabled  soldier, 
begging  his  way  home  from  the  field,  which,  a  little  while 
ago,  he  had  sought  in  the  full  vigor  of  rustic  health  he 
was  never  to  know  again  ;  with  whom  Septimius  had  to 
talk,  and  relieve  his  wants  as  far  as  he  could  (though  not 
from  the  poor  young  officer's  deposit  of  English  gold), 
and  send  him  on  his  way. 

Then  came  the  minister,  to  talk  with  his  former  pupil, 
about  whom  he  had  latterly  had  much  meditation,  not 


8EPTIMIUS    FELTON.  67 

understanding  what  mood  had  taken  possession  of  him  ; 
for  the  minister  was  a  man  of  insight,  and  from  conver- 
sations witli  Scptimius,  as  searching  as  he  knew  how  to 
make  them,  he  had  begun  to  doubt  whethe/  he  were 
sufficiently  sound  in  faith  to  adopt  the  clerical  persua- 
sion. Not  that  he  supposed  him  to  be  anything  like 
a  confirmed  unbeliever;  but  he  thought  it  probable  that 
these  doubts,  these  strange,  dark,  disheartening  sugges- 
tions of  the  Devil,  that  so  surely  infect  certain  tempera- 
ments and  measures  of  intellect,  were  tormenting  poor 
Septimius,  and  pulling  him  back  from  the  path  in  which 
he  was  capable  of  doing  so  much  good.  So  he  came 
this  afternoon  to  talk  seriously  with  him,  and  to  advise 
him,  if  the  case  were  as  he  supposed,  to  get  for  a  time 
out  of  the  track  of  the  thought  in  which  he  had  so  long 
been  engaged  ;  to  enter  into  active  life  ;  and  by  and  by, 
when  the  morbid  influences  should  have  been  overcome 
by  a  change  of  mental  and  moral  religion,  he  might  re- 
turn, fresh  and  healthy,  to  his  original  design. 

"  What  can  I  do,"  asked  Septimius,  gloomily,  "  what 
business  take  up,  when  the  whole  laud  lies  waste  and 
idle,  except  for  this  war  ?  " 

"  There  is  the  very  business,  then,"  said  the  minister. 
"  Do  you  think  God's  work  is  not  to  be  done  in  the  field 
as  well  as  in  the  pulpit  ?  You  are  strong,  Septimius,  of 
a  bold  character,  and  have  a  mien  and  bearing  that  gives 
you  a  natural  command  among  men.  Go  to  the  wars, 
and  do  a  valiant  part  for  your  country,  and  come  back 
to  your  peaceful  mission  when  the  enemy  has  vanished. 
Or  you  might  go  as  chaplain  to  a  regiment,  and  use 
either  hand  in  battle,  —  pray  for  success  before  a  battle, 


68  SEPTIM1US    FELTON. 

help  win  it  with  sword  or  gun,  and  give  thanks  to  God, 
kneeling  on  the  bloody  field,  at  its  close.  You  have 
already  stretched  one  foe  on  your  native  soil." 

Septiniius  could  not  but  smile  within  himself  at  this 
warlike  and  bloody  counsel;  and,  joining  it  with  some 
similar  exhortations  from  Aunt  Keziah,  he  was  inclined 
to  think  that  women  and  clergymen  are,  in  matters  of 
war,  the  most  uncompromising  and  bloodthirsty  of  the 
community.  However,  he  replied,  coolly,  that  his  moral 
impulses  and  his  feelings  of  duty  did  not  exactly  impel 
him  in  this  direction,  and  that  he  was  of  opinion  that 
war  was  a  business  in  which  a  man  could  not  engage 
with  safety  to  his  conscience,  unless  his  conscience  actu- 
ally drove  him  into  it ;  and  that  this  made  all  the  differ- 
ence between  heroic  battle  and  murderous  strife.  The 
good  minister  had  nothing  very  effectual  to  answer  to 
this,  and  took  his  leave,  with  a  still  stronger  opinion 
than  before  that  there  was  something  amiss  in  his  pupil's 
mind. 

By  this  time,  this  thwarting  day  had  gone  on  through 
its  course  of  little  aud  great  impediments  to  his  pursuit, 
—  the  discouragements  of  trifling  and  earthly  business, 
of  purely  impertinent  interruption,  of  severe  and  dis- 
heartening opposition  from  the  powerful  counteraction 
of  different  kinds  of  mind,  —  until  the  hour  had  come  at 
which  he  had  arranged  to  meet  Rose  Garfield.  I  am 
afraid  the  poor  thwarted  youth  did  not  go  to  his  love- 
tryst  in  any  very  amiable  mood;  but  rather,  perhaps, 
reflecting  how  all  things  earthly  and  immortal,  and  love 
among  the  rest,  whichever  category,  of  earth  or  heaven, 
it  may  belong  to,  set  themselves  against  man's  progress 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  69 

in  any  pursuit  that  be  seeks  to  devote  himself  to.  It 
is  one  struggle,  the  moment  he  undertakes  such  a  thing, 
of  everything  else  in  the  world  to  impede  him. 

However,  as  it  turned  out,  it  was  a  pleasant  and  happy 
interview  that  he  had  with  Rose  that  afternoon.  The 
girl  herself  was  in  a  happy,  tuneful  mood,  and  met  him 
with  such  simplicity,  threw  such  a  light  of  sweetness 
over  his  soul,  that  Septimius  almost  forgot  all  the  wild 
cares  of  the  day,  and  walked  by  her  side  with  a  quiet 
fulness  of  pleasure  that  was  new  to  him.  She  recon- 
ciled him,  in  some  secret  way,  to  life  as  it  was,  to 
imperfection,  to  decay ;  without  any  help  from  her  in- 
tellect, but  througli  the  influence  of  her  character,  she 
seemed,  not  to  solve,  but  to  smooth  away,  problems  that 
troubled  him ;  merely  by  being,  by  womanhood,  by  sim- 
plicity, she' interpreted  God's  ways  to  him;  she  soft- 
ened the  stouiuess  that  was  gathering  about  his  heart. 
And  so  they  had  a  delightful  time  of  talking,  and  laugh- 
ing, and  smelling  to  flowers ;  and  when  they  were  part- 
ing, Septimius  said  to  her,  — 

"  Rose,  you  have  convinced  me  that  this  is  a  most 
happy  world,  and  that  Life  has  its  two  children,  Birth 
aud  Death,  and  is  bound  to  prize  them  equally ;  and 
that  God  is  very  kind  to  his  earthly  children ;  and  that 
all  will  go  well." 

"And  have  I  convinced  you  of  all  this?"  replied 
Rose,  with  a  pretty  laughter.  "  It  is  all  true,  no  doubt, 
but  I  should  not  have  known  how  to  argue  for  it. 
But  you  are  very  sweet,  and  have  not  frightened  me 
to-day." 

"Do  I  ever  frighten  you  then,  Rose?"  asked  Sep- 


70  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

timius,  bending  his  black  brow  upon  her  with  a  look  ol 
surprise  and  displeasure. 

"  Yes,  sometimes,"  said  Rose,  facing  him  with  cour- 
age, and  smiling  upon  the  cloud  so  as  to  drive  it  away ; 
"  when  you  frown  upon  me  like  that,  I  am  a  little  afraid 
you  will  beat  me,  all  in  good  time." 

"Now,"  said  Septimius,  laughing  again,  "you  shall 
have  your  choice,  to  be  beaten  on  the  spot,  or  suffer 
another  kind  of  punishment,  —  which  ?  " 

So  saying,  he  snatched  her  to  him,  and  strove  to  kiss 
her,  while  Rose,  laughing  and  struggling,  cried  out, 
"  The  beating !  the  beating !  "  But  Septimius  relented 
not,  though  it  was  only  Rose's  cheek  that  he  succeeded 
in  touching.  In  truth,  except  for  that  first  one,  at  the 
moment  of  their  plighted  troths,  I  doubt  whether  Sep- 
timius ever  touched  those  soft,  sweet  lips',  where  the 
smiles  dwelt  and  the  little  pouts.  He  now  returned  to 
his  study,  and  questioned  with  himself  whether  he  should 
touch  that  weary,  ugly,  yellow,  blurred,  unintelligible, 
bewitched,  mysterious,  bullet-penetrated,  blood-stained 
manuscript  again.  There  was  an  undefinable  reluctance 
to  do  so,  and  at  the  same  time  an  enticement  (irresistible, 
as  it  proved)  drawing  him  towards  it.  He  yielded,  and 
taking  it  from  his  desk,  in  which  the  precious,  fatal  treas- 
ure was  locked  up,  he  plunged  into  it  again,  and  this 
time  with  a  certain  degree  of  success.  He  found  the 
line  which  had  before  gleamed  out,  and  vanished  again, 
and  which  now  started  out  in  strong  relief;  even  as 
when  sometimes  we  see  a  certain  arrangement  of  stars  in 
the  heavens,  and  again  lose  it,  by  not  seeing  its  individ- 
ual stars  in  the  same  relation  as  before ;  even  so,  looking 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  71 

at  the  manuscript  in  a  different  way,  Septimius  saw  this 
fragment  of  a  sentence,  and  saw,  moreover,  what  was 
necessary  to  give  it  a  certain  meaning.  "  Set  the  root  in 
a  grave,  and  wait  for  what  shall  blossom.  It  will  be 
very  rich,  and  full  of  juice."  Tlris  was  the  purport,  he 
now  felt  sure,  of  the  sentence  he  had  lighted  upon ;  and 
he  took  it  to  refer  to  the  mode  of  producing  something 
that  was  essential  to  the  thing  to  be  concocted.  It 
might  have  only  a  moral  being ;  or,  as  is  generally  the 
case,  the  moral  and  physical  truth  went  hand  in  hand. 

While  Septimius  was  busying  himself  in  this  way,  the 
summer  advanced,  and  with  it  there  appeared  a  new 
character,  making  her  way  into  our  pages.  This  was  a 
slender  and  pale  girl,  whom  Septimius  was  once  startled 
to  find,  when  he  ascended  his  hill-top,  to  take  his  walk 
to  and  fro  upon  the  accustomed  path,  which  lie  had  now 
worn  deep. 

What  was  stranger,  she  sat  down  close  beside  the 
grave,  which  none  but  he  and  the  minister  knew  to  be 
a  grave ;  that  little  hillock,  which  he  had  levelled  a  little, 
and  had  planted  with  various  flowers  and  shrubs  ;  which 
the  summer  had  fostered  into  richness,  the  poor  young 
man  below  having  contributed  what  he  could,  and  tried 
to  render  them  as  beautiful  as  he  might,  in  remembrance 
of  his  own  beauty.  Septimius  wished  to  conceal  the  fact 
of  its  being  a  grave :  not  that  he  was  tormented  with  any 
sense  that  he  had  done  wrong  in  shooting  the  young 
man,  which  had  been  done  in  fair  battle ;  but  still  it  was 
not  the  pleasantest  of  thoughts,  that  he  had  laid  a  beau- 
tiful human  creature,  so  fit  for  the  enjoyment  of  life,  there, 
when  his  own  dark  brow,  his  own  troubled  breast,  might 


72  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

better,  he  could  not  but  acknowledge,  have  been  covered 
up  there.  [Perhaps  there  might  sometimes  be  something 
fantastically  gay  in  the  language  and  behavior  of  the 
girl.-]  - 

Well;  but  then,  on  this  flower  and  shrub-disguised 
grave,  sat  this  unknown  form  of  a  girl,  with  a  slender, 
pallid,  melancholy  grace  about  her,  simply  dressed  in 
a  dark  attire,  which  she  drew  loosely  about  her.  At  first 
glimpse,  Septimius  fancied  that  it  might  be  Rose  ;  but  it 
needed  only  a  glance  to  undeceive  him  ;  her  figure  was 
of  another  character  from  the  vigorous,  though  slight  and 
elastic  beauty  of  Rose ;  this  was  a  drooping  grace,  and 
when  he  came  near  enough  to  see  her  face,  he  saw  that 
those  large,  dark,  melancholy  eyes,  with  which  she  had 
looked  at  him,  had  never  met  his  gaze  before. 

"  Good  morrow,  fair  maiden,"  said  Septimius,  with 
such  courtesy  as  he  knew  how  to  use  (which,  to  say 
truth,  was  of  a  rustic  order,  his  way  of  life  having 
brought  him  little  into  female  society).  "There  is  a 
nice  air  here  on  the  hill-top,  this  sultry  morning  below 
the  hill!" 

As  he  spoke,  he  continued  to  look  wonderingly  at  the 
strange  maiden,  half  fancying  that  she  might  be  some- 
thing that  had  grown  up  out  of  the  grave ;  so  unex- 
pected she  was,  so  simply  unlike  anything  that  had 
before  come  there. 

The  girl  did  not  speak  to  him,  but  as  she  sat  by  the 
grave  she  kept  weeding  out  the  little  white  blades  of 
faded  autumn  grass  and  yellow  pine-spikes,  peering  into 
the  soil  as  if  to  see  what  it  was  all  made  of,  and  every- 
thing that  was  growing  there  ;  and  in  truth,  whether  by 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  73 

Septimius's  care  or  no,  there  seemed  to  be  several  kinds 
of  flowers,  —  those  little  asters  that  abound  everywhere, 
and  golden  flowers,  such  as  autumn  supplies  with  abun- 
dance. She  seemed  to  be  in  quest  of  something,  and 
several  times  plucked  a  leaf  and  examined  it  carefully ; 
then  threw  it  down  again,  and  shook  her  head.  At  last 
she  lifted  up  her  pale  face,  and,  fixing  her  eyes  quietly  on 
Septimius,  spoke  :  "  It  is  not  here  !  " 

A  very  sweet  voice  it  was,  —  plaintive,  low,  —  and  she 
spoke  to  Septimius  as  if  she  were  familiar  with  him,  and 
had  something  to  do  with  him.  He  was  greatly  inter- 
ested, not  being  able  to  imagine  who  the  strange  girl 
was,  or  whence  she  came,  or  what,  of  all  things,  could  be 
her  reason  for  coming  and  sitting  down  by  this  grave, 
and  apparently  botanizing  upon  it,  in  quest  of  some  par- 
ticular plant. 

"  Are  you  in  search  of  flowers  ?  "  asked  Septimius. 
"  This  is  but  a  barren  spot  for  them,  and  this  is  not  a 
good  season.  In  the  meadows,  and  along  the  margin  of 
the  watercourses,  you  might  find  the  fringed  gentian  at 
this  time.  In  the  woods  there  are  several  pretty  flowers, 
—  the  side-saddle  flower,  the  anemone;  violets  are  plen- 
tiful in  spring,  and  make  the  whole  hillside  blue.  But 
this  hill-top,  with  its  soil  strewn  over  a  heap  of  pebble- 
stones, is  no  place  for  flowers." 

"The  soil  is  fit,"  said  the  maiden,  "but  the  flower  has 
not  sprung  up." 

"What  flower  do  you  speak  of?  "  asked  Septimius. 

"  One  that  is  not  here,"  said  the  pale  girl.  "  No  mat- 
ter. I  will  look  for  it  again  next  spring." 

"  Do  you,  then,  dwell  hereabout  ?  "  inquired  Septimius. 
4 


74  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

"  Surely,"  said  the  maiden,  with  a  look  of  surprise ; 
"  where  else  should  I  dwell  ?  My  home  is  on  this  hill- 
top." 

It  not  a  little  startled  Septimius,  as  may  be  supposed, 
to  find  his  paternal  inheritance,  of  which  lie  and  his 
forefathers  had  been  the  only  owners  since  the  world 
began  (for  they  held  it  by  an  Indian  deed),  claimed  as  a 
home  and  abiding-place  by  this  fair,  pale,  strange-acting 
maiden,  who  spoke  as  if  she  had  as  much  right  there  as 
if  she  had  grown  up  out  of  the  soil  like  one  of  the  wild, 
indigenous  flowers  which  she  had  been  gazing  at  and 
handling.  However  that  might  be,  the  maiden  seemed 
now  about  to  depart,  rising,  giving  a  farewell  toucli  or 
two  to  the  little  verdant  hillock,  which  looked  much  the 
neater  for  her  ministrations. 

"  Are  you  going  ?  "  said  Septimius,  looking  at  her  in 
wonder. 

"  For  a  time,"  said  she. 

"  And  shall  I  see  you  again  ?  "  asked  he. 

"  Surely,"  said  the  maiden,  "  this  is  my  walk,  along 
the  brow  of  the  hill." 

It  again  smote  Septimius  with  a  strange  thrill  of  sur- 
prise to  find  the  walk  which  he  himself  had  made,  tread- 
ing it,  and  smoothing  it,  and  beating  it  down  with  the 
pressure  of  his  continual  feet,  from  the  time  when  the 
tufted  grass  made  the  sides  all  uneven,  until  now,  when 
it  was  such  a  pathway  as  you  may  see  through  a  wood, 
or  over  a  field,  where  many  feet  pass  every  day,  —  to 
find  this  track  and  exemplification  of  his  own  secret 
thoughts  and  plans  and  emotions,  this  writing  of  his 
body,  impelled  by  the  struggle  and  movement  of  his  sold 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  75 

claimed  as  her  own  by  a  strange  girl  -with  melancholy 
eyes  and  voice,  who  seemed  to  have  such  a  sad  familiarity 
with  him. 

"  You  are  welcome  to  come  here,"  said  he,  endeavor- 
ing at  least  to  keep  such  hold  on  his  own  property  as 
was  implied  in  making  a  hospitable  surrender  of  it  to 
another. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  girl,  "  a  person  should  always  be  wel- 
come to  his  own." 

A  faint  smile  seemed  to  pass  over  her  face  as  she  said 
this,  vanishing,  however,  immediately  into  the  melan- 
choly of  her  usual  expression.  She  went  along  Septim- 
ius's  path,  while  he  stood  gazing  at  her  till  she  reached 
the  brow  where  it  sloped  towards  Robert  Hagburn's 
house ;  then  she  turned,  and  seemed  to  wave  a  slight 
farewell  towards  the  young  man,  and  began  to  descend. 
When  her  figure  had  entirely  sunk  behind  the  brow  of 
the  hill,  Septimius  slowly  followed  along  the  ridge,  mean- 
ing lo  watch  from  that  elevated  station  the  course  she 
would  take ;  although,  indeed,  he  would  not  have  been 
surprised  if  he  had  seen  nothing,  no  trace  of  her  in  the 
whole  nearness  or  distance  ;  in  short,  if  she  had  been  a 
freak,  an  illusion,  of  a  hard-working  mind  that  had  put 
itself  ajar  by  deeply  brooding  on  abstruse  matters,  an  illu- 
sion of  eyes  that  he  had  tried  too  much  by  poring  over 
the  inscrutable  manuscript,  and  of  intellect  that  was  mys- 
tified and  bewildered  by  trying  to  grasp  things  that  could 
not  be  grasped.  A  thing  of  witchcraft,  a  sort  of  fungus- 
growtli  out  of  the  grave,  an  unsubstantially  altogether ; 
although,  certainly,  she  had  weeded  the  grave  with  bodily 
fingers,  at  all  events.  Still  he  had  so  munli  of  the  heredi- 


76  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

tary  mysticism  of  his  race  in  him,  that  he  might  have 
held  her  supernatural,  only  that  on  reaching  the  brow  of 
the  hill  he  saw  her  feet  approach  the  dwelling  of  Robert 
Hagburn's  mother,  who,  moreover,  appeared  at  the  thresh- 
old beckoning  her  to  come,  with  a  motherly,  hospitable 
air,  that  denoted  she  knew  the  strange  girl,  and  recog- 
nized her  as  human. 

It  did  not  lessen  Septimius's  surprise,  however,  to 
think  that  such  a  singular  being  was  established  in  the 
neighborhood  without  his  knowledge ;  considered  as  a 
real  occurrence  of  this  world,  it  seemed  even  more  un- 
accountable than  if  it  had  been  a  thing  of  ghostology  and 
witchcraft.  Continually  through  the  day  the  incident 
kept  introducing  its  recollection  among  his  thoughts  and 
studies ;  continually,  as  he  paced  along  his  path,  this  form 
seemed  to  hurry  along  by  his  side  on  the  track  that  she 
had  claimed  for  her  own,  and  he  thought  of  her  singular 
threat  or  promise,  whichever  it  were  to  be  held,  that  be 
should  have  a  companion  there  in  future.  In  the  decline 
of  the  day,  when  he  met  the  schoolmistress  coming  home 
from  her  little  seminary,  he  snatched  the  first  opportunity 
to  mention  the  apparition  of  the  morning,  and  ask  Rose 
if  she  knew  anything  of  her. 

"  Very  little,"  said  Rose,  "but  she  is  flesh  and  blood, 
of  that  you  may  be  quite  sure.  She  is  a  girl  who  has 
been  shut  up  in  Boston  by  the  siege ;  perhaps  a  daughter 
of  one  of  the  British  officers,  and  her  health  being  frail, 
she  requires  better  air  than  they  have  there,  and  so  per- 
mission was  got  for  her,  from  General  Washington,  to 
come  and  live  in  the  country ;  as  any  one  may  see,  our 
liberties  have  nothing  to  fear  from  this  poor  brain-stricken 


SEPTIM1US    FELTOX.  77 

girl.  And  Robert  Hagburn,  having  to  bring  a  message 
from  camp  to  the  selectmen  here,  had  it  iu  charge  to 
bring  the  girl,  whom  his  mother  has  taken  to  board." 

"  Then  the  poor  thing  is  crazy  ?  "  asked  Septimius. 

"A  little  braiii-touched,  that  is  all,"  replied  Rose, 
"  owing  to  some  grief  that  she  has  had  ;  but  she  is  quite 
harmless,  Robert  was  told  to  say,  and  needs  little  or  no 
watching,  and  will  get  a  kind  of  fantastic  happiness  for 
herself,  if  only  she  is  allowed  to  ramble  about  at  her 
pleasure.  If  thwarted,  she  might  be  very  wild  and  mis- 
erable." 

"  Have  you  spoken  with  her  ?  "  asked  Septimius. 

"  A  word  or  two  this  morning,  as  I  was  going  to  my 
school,"  suid  Rose.  "  She  took  me  by  the  hand,  and 
smiled,  and  suid  we  would  be  friends,  and  that  I  should 
show  her  where  the  flowers  grew  ;  for  that  she  had  a  lit- 
tle spot  of  her  own  that  she  wanted  to  plant  with  them. 
And  she  asked  me  if  the  Sanguinea  sanguinissima  grew 
hereabout.  I  should  not  have  taken  her  to  be  ailing 
in  her  wits,  only  for  a  kind  of  free-spokenness  and  famil- 
iarity, as  if  we  had  been  acquainted  a  long  while  ;  or  as  if 
she  had  lived  in  some  country  where  there  are  no  forms 
and  impediments  in  people's  getting  acquainted." 

"Did  you  like  her  ?  "  inquired  Septimius. 

"  Yes  ;  almost  loved  her  at  first  sight,"  answered  Rose, 
"and  I  hope  may  do  her  some  little  good,  poor  thing, 
being  of  her  own  age,  and  the  only  companion,  here- 
abouts, whom  she  is  likely  to  find.  But  she  has  been 
well  educated,  and  is  a  lady,  that  is  easy  to  see." 

"  It  is  very  strange,"  said  Septimius,  "  but  I  fear  I 
shall  be  a  good  deal  interrupted  in  my  thoughts  and 


78  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

studies,  if  she  insists  on  haunting  my  hill-top  as  much 
as  she  tells  me.  My  meditations  are  perhaps  of  a  little 
too  much  importance  to  be  shoved  aside  for  the  sake  of 
gratifying  a  crazy  girl's  fantasies." 

"  Ah,  that  is  a  hard  thing  to  say  !  "  exclaimed  Rose, 
shocked  at  her  lover's  cold  egotism,  though  not  giving 
it  that  title.  "  Let  the  poor  thing  glide  quietly  along  iu 
the  path,  though  it  be  yours.  Perhaps,  after  a  while, 
she  will  help  your  thoughts." 

"My  thoughts,"  said  Septimius,  "are  of  a  kind  that 
can  have  no  help  from  any  one ;  if  from  any,  it  would 
only  be  from  some  wise,  long-studied,  and  experienced 
scientific  man,  who  could  enlighten  me  as  to  the  bases 
and  foundation  of  things,  as  to  mystic  writings,  as  to 
chemical  elements,  as  to  the  mysteries  of  language,  as 
to  the  principles  and  system  on  which  we  were  created. 
Methiuks  these  are  not  to  be  taught  me  by  a  girl  touched 
in  the  wits." 

"I  fear,"  replied  Rose  Garfield  with  gravity,  and 
drawing  imperceptibly  apart  from  him,  "  that  no  woman 
can  help  you  much.  You  despise  woman's  thought,  and 
have  no  need  of  her  affection." 

Septimius  said  something  soft  and  sweet,  and  in  a 
measure  true,  in  regard  to  the  necessity  he  felt  for  the 
affection  and  sympathy  of  one  woman  at  least  —  the  one 
now  by  his  side  —  to  keep  his  life  warm  and  to  make 
the  empty  chambers  of  his  heart  comfortable.  But  even 
while  he  spoke,  there  was  something  that  dragged  upon 
his  tongue  ;  for  he  felt  that  the  solitary  pursuit  in  which 
he  was  engaged  carried  him  apart  from  the  sympathy  of 
which  he  spoke,  and  that  he  was  concentrating  his  efforts 


SEPTIM1US    FELTON.  79 

and  interest  entirely  upon  himself,  and  that  the  more  he 
succeeded  the  more  remotely  he  should  be  carried  away, 
and  that  his  final  triumph  would  be  the  complete  seclu- 
sion of  himself  from  all  that  breathed,  —  the  converting 
him,  from  an  interested  actor,  into  a  cold  and  discon- 
nected spectator  of  all  mankind's  warm  and  sympathetic 
life.  So,  as  it  turned  out,  this  interview  with  Rose  was 
one  of  those  in  which,  coming  no  one  knows  from 
whence,  a  nameless  cloud  springs  up  between  two  lov- 
ers, and  keeps  them  apart  from  one  another  by  a  cold, 
sullen  spell.  Usually,  however,  it  requires  only  one 
word,  spoken  out  of  the  heart,  to  break  that  spell,  and 
compel  the  invisible,  unsympathetic  medium  which  the 
enemy  of  love  has  stretched  cunningly  between  them,  to 
vanish,  and  let  them  come  closer  together  than  ever ;  but, 
in  this  case,  it  might  be  that  the  love  was  the  illusive  state, 
and  the  estrangement  the  real  truth,  the  disenchanted 
verity.  At  all  events,  when  the  feeling  passed  away,  in 
Rose's  heart  there  was  no  reaction,  no  warmer  love,  as 
is  generally  the  case.  As  for  Septimius,  he  had  other 
things  to  think  about,  and  when  he  next  met  Rose  Gar- 
field,  had  forgotten  that  he  had  been  sensible  of  a  little 
wounded  feeling,  on  her  part,  at  parting. 

By  dint  of  continued  poring  over  the  manuscript,  Sep- 
timius now  began  to  comprehend  that  it  was  written  in 
a  singular  mixture  of  Latin  and  ancient  English,  with 
constantly  recurring  paragraphs  of  what  he  was  con- 
vinced was  a  mystic  writing ;  and  these  recurring  pas- 
sages of  complete  unintelligibility  seemed  to  be  necessary 
to  the  proper  understanding  of  any  part  of  the  document. 
What  was  discoverable  was  quaint,  curious,  but  thwart- 


80  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

ing  and  perplexing,  because  it  seemed  to  imply  some 
very  great  purpose,  only  to  be  brought  out  by  what  was 
hidden. 

Septimius  had  read,  in  the  old  college  library  during 
his  pupilage,  a  work  on  ciphers  and  cryptic  writing,  but 
being  drawn  to  it  only  by  his  curiosity  respecting  what- 
ever was  hidden,  and  not  expecting  ever  to  use  his 
knowledge,  he  had  obtained  only  the  barest  idea  of  what 
was  necessary  to  the  deciphering  a  secret  passage. 
Judging  by  what  he  could  pick  out,  he  would  have 
thought  the  whole  essay  was  upon  the  moral  conduct ; 
all  parts  of  that  he  could  make  out  seeming  to  refer  to  a 
certain  ascetic  rule  of  life ;  to  denial  of  pleasures ;  these 
topics  being  repeated  and  insisted  on  everywhere,  al- 
though without  any  discoverable  reference  to  religious 
or  moral  motives ;  and  always  when  the  author  seemed 
verging  towards  a  definite  purpose,  he  took  refuge  in  his 
cipher.  Yet  withal,  imperfectly  (or  not  at  all,  rather) 
as  Septimius  could  comprehend  its  purport,  this  strange 
writing  had  a  mystic  influence,  that  wrought  upon  his 
imagination,  and  with  the  late  singular  incidents  of  his 
life,  his  continual  thought  on  this  one  subject,  his  walk 
on  the  hill-top,  lonely,  or  only  interrupted  by  the  pale 
shadow  of  a  girl,  combined  to  set  him  outside  of  the 
living  world.  Rose  Garfield  perceived  it,  knew  and  felt 
that  he  was  gliding  away  from  her,  and  met  him  with  a 
reserve  which  she  could  not  overcome. 

It  was  a  pity  that  his  early  friend,  Robert  Hagburn, 
could  not  at  present  have  any  influence  over  him,  having 
now  regularly  joined  the  Continental  Army,  and  being 
engaged  in  the  expedition  of  Arnold  against  Quebec. 


SEPTIM1US    FELTON.  81 

Indeed,  this  war,  iu  which  the  country  was  so  earnestly 
and  enthusiastically  engaged,  had  perhaps  an  influence 
011  Septimius's  state  of  mind,  for  it  put  everybody  into 
an  exaggerated  aud  unnatural  state,  united  enthusiasms 
of  all  sorts,  heightened  everybody  either  into  its  own 
heroism  or  into  the  peculiar  madness  to  which  each 
person  was  inclined;  and  Septimius  walked  so  much 
the  more  wildly  on  his  lonely  course,  because  the  people 
were  going  enthusiastically  ou  another.  Iu  times  of\ 
revolution  and  public  disturbance  all  absurdities  are  \ 
more  unrestrained ;  the  measure  of  calm  sense,  the  j 
habits,  the  orderly  decency,  are  partially  lost.  More  < 
people  become  insane,  I  should  suppose ;  offences  against 
public  morality,  female  license,  are  more  numerous; 
suicides,  murders,  all  ungovernable  outbreaks  of  men's 
thoughts,  embodying  themselves  in  wild  acts,  take  place 
more  frequently,  and  with  less  horror  to  the  lookers-on. 
So  [with]  Septimius ;  there  was  not,  as  there  would  have 
been  at  an  ordinary  time,  the  same  calmness  and  truth 
in  the  public  observation,  scrutinizing  everything  with 
its  keen  criticism,  in  that  time  of  seething  opinions  and 
overturned  principles;  a  new  time  was  coming,  and 
Septimius's  phase  of  novelty  attracted  less  attention  so 
far  as  it  was  known. 

So  he  continued  to  brood  over  the  manuscript  in  his 
study,  and  to  hide  it  under  lock  aud  key  in  a  recess  of 
the  wall,  as  if  it  were  a  secret  of  murder ;  to  walk,  too, 
on  his  hill-top,  where  at  sunset  always  came  the  pale, 
crazy  maiden,  who  still  seemed  to  watch  the  little  hillock 
with  a  pertinacious  care  that  was  strange  to  Septimius. 
By  and  by  came  the  winter  and  the  deep  snows ;  and 


82  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

even  then,  unwilling  to  give  up  his  habitual  place  of  ex- 
ercise, the  monotonousness  of  which  promoted  his  wish 
to  keep  before  his  mind  one  subject  of  thought,  Septimius 
wore  a  path  through  the  snow,  and  still  walked  there. 
Here,  however,  he  lost  for  a  time  the  companionship  of 
the  girl ;  for  when  the  first  snow  came,  she  shivered,  and 
looked  at  its  white  heap  over  the  hillock,  and  said  to  Sep- 
timius, "  I  will  look  for  it  again  in  spring." 

[Septimius  is  at  the  point  of  despair  for  want  of  a  guide 
in  his  studies.] 

The  winter  swept  over,  and  spring  was  just  beginning 
to  spread  its  green  flush  over  the  more  favored  exposures 
of  the  landscape,  although  on  the  north  side  of  stone- 
walls, and  the  northern  nooks  of  hills,  there  were  still 
the  remnants  of  snow-drifts.  Septimius's  hill-top,  which 
was  of  a  soil  which  quickly  rid  itself  of  moisture,  now 
began  to  be  a  genial  place  of  resort  to  him,  and  he  was 
one  morning  taking  his  walk  there",  meditating  upon  the 
still  insurmountable  difficulties  which  interposed  them- 
selves against  the  interpretation  of  the  manuscript,  yet 
feeling  the  new  gush  of  spring  bring  hope  to  him,  and  the 
energy  and  elasticity  for  new  effort.  Thus  pacing  to  and 
fro,  he  was  surprised,  as  he  turned  at  the  extremity  of 
his  walk,  to  see  a  figure  advancing  towards  him;  not 
that  of  the  pale  maiden  whom  he  was  accustomed  to  see 
there,  but  a  figure  as  widely  different  as  possible.  [He 
sees  a  spider  dangling  from  his  web,  and  examines  him 
minutely]  It  was  that  of  a  short,  broad,  somewhat  el- 
derly man,  dressed  in  a  surtout  that  had  a  half-military 
air,  the  cocked  hat  of  the  period,  well  worn,  and  having 
a  fresher  spot  in  it,  whence,  perhaps,  a  cockade  had  been 


SEPTIM1US    FELTON.  83 

recently  taken  off;  and  this  personage  carried  a  well 
blackened  German  pipe  in  his  hand,  which,  as  he  walked, 
he  applied  to  his  lips,  and  puffed  out  volumes  of  smoke, 
filling  the  pleasant  western  breeze  with  the  fragrance  of 
some  excellent  Virginia.  He  came  slowly  along,  and  Sep- 
timius,  slackening  his  pace  a  little,  came  as  slowly  to  meet 
him,  feeling  somewhat  indignant,  to  be  sure,  that  any- 
body should  intrude  on  his  sacred  hill ;  until  at  last  they 
met,  as  it  happened,  close  by  the  memorable  little  hillock, 
on  which  the  grass  and  flower-leaves  also  had  begun  to 
sprout.  The  stranger  looked  keenly  at  Septimius,  made 
a  careless  salute  by  putting  his  hand  up,  and  took  the 
pipe  from  his  mouth. 

"Mr.  Septimius  Felton,  I  suppose  ?  "  said  he. 

"That  is  my  name,"  replied  Septimius. 

"  I  am  Doctor  Jabez  Portsoaken,"  said  the  stranger, 
"  late  surgeon  of  his  Majesty's  sixteenth  regiment,  which 
I  quitted  when  his  Majesty's  army- quitted  Boston,  being 
desirous  of  trying  my  fortunes  in  your  country,  and  giv- 
ing the  people  the  benefit  of  my  scientific  knowledge ; 
also  to  practise  some  new  modes  of  medical  science, 
which  I  could  not  so  well  do  in  the  army." 

"  I  think  you  are  quite  right,  Doctor  Jabez  Portsoak- 
en," said  Septimius,  a  little  confused  and  bewildered,  so 
unused  had  lie  become  to  the  society  of  strangers. 

"  And  as  to  you,  sir,"  said  the  doctor,  who  had  a 
very  rough,  abrupt  way  of  speaking,  "  I  have  to  thank 
you  for  a  favor  done  me." 

"  Have  you,  sir  ?  "  said  Septimius,  who  was  quite  sure 
that  he  had  never  seen  the  doctor's  uncouth  figure 
before. 


84  SEPTIM1US    FELTON. 

"  0,  ay,  me,"  said  the  doctor,  puffing  coolly,  —  "  me, 
in  the  person  of  my  niece,  a  sickly,  poor,  nervous  little 
thing,  who  is  very  fond  of  walking  on  your  hill-top,  and 
whom  you  do  not  send  away." 

"  You  are  the  uncle  of  Sibyl  Dacy  ?  "  said  Septimius. 
"  Even  so,  her  mother's  brother,"  said  the  doctor,  with 
a  grotesque  bow.  "  So,  being  on  a  visit,  the  first  that 
the  siege  allowed  me  to  pay,  to  see  how  the  girl  was  get- 
ting on,  I  take  the  opportunity  to  pay  my  respects  to 
you;  the  more  that  I  understand  you  to  be  a  young 
man  of  some  learning,  and  it  is  not  often  that  one  meets 
with  such  in  this  country." 

"  No,"  said  Septimius,  abruptly,  for  indeed  he  had  half 
a  suspicion  that  this  queer  Doctor  Portsoaken  was  not 
altogether  sincere,  —  that,  in  short,  he  was  making  game 
of  him.  "  You  have  been  misinformed.  I  know  noth- 
ing whatever  that  is  worth  knowing." 

"  Oho  !  "  said  the  doctor,  with  a  long  puff  of  smoke 
out  of  his  pipe.  "  If  you  are  convinced  of  that,  you  are 
one  of  the  wisest  men  I  have  met  with,  young  as  you  are. 
I  must  have  been  twice  your  age  before  I  got  so  far ; 
and  even  now,  I  am  sometimes  fool  enough  to  doubt  the 
only  thing  I  was  ever  sure  of  knowing.  But  come,  you 
make  me  only  the  more  earnest  to  collogue  with  you.  If 
we  put  both  our  shortcomings  together,  they  may  make 
up  an  item  of  positive  knowledge." 

"  What  use  can  one  make  of  abortive  thoughts  ? " 
said  Septimius. 

"  Do  your  speculations  take  a  scientific  turn  ?  "  said 
Doctor  Portsoaken.  "There  I  can  meet  you  with  as 
much  false  knowledge  and  empiricism  as  you  can  bring 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  85 

for  the  life  of  you.  Have  you  ever  tried  to  study 
spiders  ?  —  there  is  my  strong  point  now !  I  have  hung 
my  whole  interest  in  life  on  a  spider's  web." 

"I  know  nothing  of  them,  sir,"  said  Septimius,  "ex- 
cept to  crush  them  when  I  see  them  running  across  the 
floor,  or  to  brush  away  the  festoons  of  their  webs  when 
they  have  chanced  to  escape  my  Aunt  Keziah's  broom." 

"  Crush  them  !  Brush  away  their  webs  !  "  cried  the 
doctor,  apparently  in  a  rage,  and  shaking  his  pipe  at 
Septimius.  "  Sir,  it  is  sacrilege !  Yes,  it  is  worse  than 
murder.  Every  thread  of  a  spider's  web  is  worth  more 
than  a  thread  of  gold  ;  and  before  twenty  years  are 
passed,  a  housemaid  will  be  beaten  to  death  with  her 
own  broomstick  if  she  disturbs  one  of  these  sacred 
animals.  But,  come  again.  Shall  we  talk  of  botany, 
the  virtues  of  herbs  ?  " 

"My  Aunt  Keziah  should  meet  you  there,  doctor," 
said  Septimius.  "She  has  a  native  and  original  ac- 
quaintance with  their  virtues,  and  can  save  and  kill  with 
any  of  the  faculty.  As  for  myself,  my  studies  have  not 
turned  that  way." 

"  They  ought !  they  ought !  "  said  the  doctor,  looking' 
meaningly  at  him.  "The  whole  thing  lies  in  the  blos- 
som of  an  herb.  Now,  you  ought  to  begin  with  what 
lies  about  you ;  on  this  little  hillock,  for  instance " ; 
and  looking  at  the  grave  beside  which  they  were  stand- 
ing, he  gave  it  a  kick  which  went  to  Septimius's  heart, 
there  seemed  to  be  such  a  spite  and  scorn  in  it.  "  On 
this  hillock  I  see  some  specimens  of  plants  which  would 
be  worth  your  looking  at." 

Bending  down  towards   the   grave  as  he  spoke,  he 


gg  SEPTIMIUS   FELTON. 

seemed  to  give  closer  attention  to  what  he  saw  there ; 
keeping  in  his  stooping  position  till  his  face  began  to 
get  a  purple  aspect,  for  the  erudite  doctor  was  of  that 
make  of  man  who  has  to  be  kept  right  side  uppermost 
with  care.  At  length  he  raised  himself,  muttering, 
"  Very  curious  !  very  curious !  " 

"  Do  you  see  anything  remarkable  there  ? "  asked 
Septimius,  with  some  interest. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  bluntly.  "  No  matter  what ! 
The  time  will  come  when  you  may  like  to  know  it." 

"  Will  you  come  with  me  to  my  residence  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill,  Doctor  Portsoaken  ?  "  asked  Septimius.  "  I 
am  not  a  learned  man,  and  have  little  or  no  title  to  con- 
verse with  one,  except  a  sincere  desire  to  be  wiser  than 
I  am.  If  you  can  be  moved  on  such  terms  to  give  me 
your  companionship,  I  shall  be  thankful." 

"  Sir,  I  am  with  you,"  said  Doctor  Portsoaken.  "  I 
will  tell  you  what  I  know,  in  the  sure  belief  (for  I  will 
be  frank  with  you)  that  it  will  add  to  the  amount  of 
dangerous  folly  now  in  your  mind,  and  help  you  on  the 
way  to  ruin.  Take  your  choice,  therefore,  whether  to 
know  me  further  or  not." 

"I  neither  shrink  nor  fear, — neither  hope  much," 
said  Septimius,  quietly.  "  Anything  that  you  can  com- 
municate —  if  anything  you  can  —  I  shall  fearlessly  re- 
ceive, and  return  you  such  thanks  as  it  may  be  found  to 
deserve." 

So  saying,  he  led  the  way  down  the  hill,  by  the  steep 
path  that  descended  abruptly  upon  the  rear  of  his  bare 
and  unadorned  little  dwelling ;  the  doctor  following  with 
much  foul  language  (for  he  had  a  terrible  habit  of  swear- 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  87 

ing)  at  the  difficulties  of  the  way,  to  which  his  short  legs 
were  ill  adapted.  Aunt  Keziah  met  them  at  the  door, 
and  looked  sharply  at  the  doctor,  who  returned  the  gaze 
with  at  least  as  much  keenness,  muttering  between  his 
teetli,  as  he  did  so ;  and  to  say  the  truth,  Aunt  Keziah 
was  as  worthy  of  being  sworn  at  as  any  woman  could 
well  be,  for  whatever  she  might  have  been  in  her  younger 
days,  she  was  at  this  time  »  strange  a  mixture  of  an 
Indian  aquflw  pnd  herb  doctrm.  YVt*1  *^*  gyfrhed  old 
maid,  and  a  mingling  of  the  witch-aspect  runiiint:  through 
all,  as  could  well  be  imagined ;  and  she  had  aTTiandker- 
chief  over  her  head,  and  she  was  of  hue  a  dusky  yellow, 
and  she  looked  very  cross.  As  Septimius  ushered  the 
doctor  into  his  study,  and  was  about  to  follow  him,  Aunt 
Keziah  drew  him  back. 

"  Septimius,  who  is  this  you  have  brought  here  P  " 
asked  she. 

"A  man  I  have  met  on  the  hill,"  answered  her 
nephew;  "a  Doctor  Portsoaken  he  calls  himself,  from 
the  old  country.  He  says  he  has  knowledge  of  herbs 
and  other  mysteries ;  in  your  own  line,  it  may  be.  If 
you  want  to  talk  with  him,  give  the  man  his  dinner, 
and  find  out  what  there  is  in  him." 

"  And  what  do  you  want  of  him  yourself,  Septimius  P  '^ 
asked  she. 

"  I  ?  Nothing !  —  that  is  to  say,  I  expect  nothing," 
said  Septimius.  "But  I  am  astray,  seeking  everywhere, 
and  so  I  reject  no  hint,  no  promise,  no  faintest  possi- 
bility of  aid  that  I  may  find  anywhere.  I  judge  this  man 
to  be  a  quack,  but  1  judge  the  same  of  the  most  learned 
man  of  his  profession,  or  any  other;  and  there  is  a 


88  SEPTIMIUS    FELTOX. 

roughness  about  this  man,  that  may  indicate  a  little  more 
knowledge  than  if  he  were  smoother.  So,  as  he  threw 
himself  in  my  way,  I  take  him  in." 

"A  grim,  ugly -looking  old  wretch  as  ever  I  saw," 
muttered  Aunt.  Keziah.  "  Well,  he  shall  have  his  din- 
ner ;  and  if  he  likes  to  talk  about  yarb-dishes,  I  'm  with 
him." 

So  Septimius  followed  the  doctor  into  his  study,  where 
he  found  him  with  the  sword  in  his  hand,  which  he  had 
taken  from  over  the  mantel-piece,  and  was  holding  it 
drawn,  examining  the  hilt  and  blade  with  great  minute- 
ness ;  the  hilt  being  wrought  in  openwork,  with  certain 
heraldic  devices,  doubtless  belonging  to  the  family  of  its 
former  wearer. 

"  I  have  seen  this  weapon  before,"  said  the  doctor. 

"It  may  well  be,"  said  Septimius.  "It  was  once 
worn  by  a  person  who  served  in  the  army  of  your 
king." 

"  And  you  took  it  from  him  ?  "  said  the  doctor. 

"  If  I  did,  it  was  in  no  way  that  I  need  be  ashamed  of, 
or  afraid  to  tell,  though  I  choose  rather  not  to  speak  of 
it,"  answered  Septimius. 

"Have  you,  then,  no  desire  nor  interest  to  know 
the  family,  the  personal  history,  the  prospects,  of  him 
who  once  wore  this  sword,  and  who  will  never  draw 
sword  again?"  inquired  Doctor  Portsoaken.  "Poor 
Cyril  Norton  !  There  was  a  singular  story  attached  to 
that  young  man,  sir,  and  a  singular  mystery  he  carried 
about  with  him,  the  end  of  which,  perhaps  is  not  yet." 

Septimius  would  have  been,  indeed,  well  enough  pleased 
to  learn  the  mystery  which  he  himself  had  seen  that 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  89 

there  was  about  the  mail  whom  he  slew;  but  he  was 
afraid  that  some  question  might  be  thereby  started  about 
the  secret  document  that  he  had  kept  possession  of;  and 
he  therefore  would  have  wished  to  avoid  the  whole  sub- 
ject. 

"  I  cannot  be  supposed  to  take  much  interest  in  Eng- 
lish family  history.  It  is  a  hundred  and  fifty  years,  at 
least,  since  my  own  family  ceased  to  be  English,"  he  an- 
swered. "  I  care  more  for  the  present  and  future  than  for 
the  past." 

"  It  is  all  one,"  said  the  doctor,  sitting  down,  taking 
out  a  pinch  of  tobacco,  and  refilling  his  pipe. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  follow  up  the  description  of  the 
visit  of  the  eccentric  doctor  through  the  day.  Suffice  it 
to  say  that  there  was  a  sort  of  charm,  or  rather  fascina- 
tion, about  the  uncouth  old  fellow,  in  spite  of  his  strange 
ways;  in  spite  of  his  constant  puffing  of  tobacco;  and  in 
spite,  too,  of  a  constant  imbibing  of  strong  liquor,  which 
he  made  inquiries  for,  and  of  which  the  best  that  could  be 
produced  was  a  certain  decoction,  infusion,  or  distillation, 
pertaining  to  Aunt  Keziah,  and  of  which  the  basis  was 
rum,  be  it  said,  done  up  with  certain  bitter  herbs  of  the 
old  lady's  own  gathering,  at  proper  times  of  the  moon, 
and  which  was  a  well-known  drink  to  all  who  were  favored 
with  Auut  Keziah's  friendship  ;  though  there  was  a  story 
that  it  was  the  very  drink  which  used  to  be  passed  round 
at  witch-meetings,  being  brewed  from  the  Devil's  own 
recipe.  And,  in  truth,  judging  from  the  taste  (for  I 
once  took  a  sip  of  a  draught  prepared  from  the  same  in- 
gredients, and  in  the  same  way),  I  should  think  this  hell- 
ish origin  might  be  the  veritable  one. 


90  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

["  /  thought"  quoth  the  doctor,  "  I  could  drink  any- 
thing, but  —  "} 

But  the  valiant  doctor  sipped,  and  sipped  again,  and 
said  with  great  blasphemy  that  it  was  the  real  stuff,  and 
only  needed  henbane  to  make  it  perfect.  Then,  taking 
from  his  pocket  a  good-sized  leathern-covered  flask,  with 
a  silver  lip  fastened  on  the  muzzle,  he  offered  it  to  Sep- 
timius,  who  declined,  and  to  Aunt  Keziah,  who  preferred 
her  own  decoction,  and  then  drank  it  off  himself,  with  a 
loud  smack  of  satisfaction,  declaring  it  to  be  infernally 
good  brandy. 

Well,  after  this  Septimius  and  he  talked ;  and  1  know 
not  how  it  was,  but  there  was  a  great  deal  of  imagination 
in  this  queer  man,  whether  a  bodily  or  spiritual  influence 
it  might  be  hard  to  say.  On  the  other  hand,  Septimius 
had  for  a  long  while  held  little  intercourse  with  men; 
none  whatever  with  men  who  could  comprehend  him ;  the 
doctor,  too,  seemed  to  bring  the  discourse  singularly  in 
apposition  with  what  his  host  was  continually  thinking 
about,  for  he  conversed  on  occult  matters,  on  people  who 
had  had  the  art  of  living  long,  and  had  only  died  at  last 
by  accident,  on  the  powers  and  qualities  of  common  herbs, 
which  he  believed  to  be  so  great,  that  all  around  our  feet — 
growing  in  the  wild  forest,  afar  from  man,  or  following 
the  footsteps  of  man  wherever  he  fixes  his  residence, 
across  seas,  from  the  old  homesteads  whence  he  migrated, 
following  him  everywhere,  and  offering  themselves  sed- 
ulously and  continually  to  his  notice,  while  he  only  plucks 
them  away  from  the  comparatively  worthless  things 
which  he  cultivates,  and  flings  them  aside,  blaspheming 
at  them  because  Providence  has  sown  them  so  thickly 


SEPTIMIUS    FEtTON.  91 

—  grow  what  we  call  weeds,  only  because  all  the  gener- 
ations, from  the  beginning  of  time  till  now,  have  failed 
to  discover  their  wondrous  virtues,  potent  for  the  curing 
of  all  diseases,  potent  for  procuring  length  of  days. 

"  Everything  good,"  said  the  doctor,  drinking  another \ 
dram  of  brandy,  "  lies  right  at  our  feet,  and  all  we  need  / 
is  to  gather  it  up." 

"  That 's  true,"  quoth  Keziah,  taking  just  a  little  sup 
of  her  hellish  preparation ;  "  these  herbs  were  all  gath- 
ered within  a  hundred  yards  of  this  very  spot,  though  it 
took  a  wise  woman  to  find  out  their  virtues." 

The  old  woman  went  off  about  her  household  duties, 
and  then  it  was  that  Septimius  submitted  to  the  doctor 
the  list  of  herbs  which  he  had  picked  out  of  the  old  docu- 
ment, asking  him,  as  something  apposite  to  the  subject  of 
their  discourse,  whether  lie  was  acquainted  with  them, 
for  most  of  them  had  very  queer  names,  some  in  Latin, 
some  in  English. 

The  bluff  doctor  put  on  his  spectacles,  and  looked  over 
the  slip  of  yellow  and  worn  paper  scrutinizingly,  puffing 
tobacco-smoke  upon  it  in  great  volumes,  as  if  thereby  to 
make  its  hidden  purport  come  out;  he  mumbled  to  him- 
self, he  took  another  sip  from  his  flask ;  and  then,  putting 
it  down  on  the  table,  appeared  to  meditate. 

"  This  infernal  old  document,"  said  he,  at  length,  "  is 
one  that  I  have  never  seen  before,  yet  heard  of,  neverthe- 
less ;  for  it  was  my  folly  in  youth  (and  whether  I  am  any 
wiser  now  is  more  than  I  take  upon  me  to  say,  but  it  was 
my  folly  then)  to  be  in  quest  of  certain  kinds  of  secret 
knowledge,  which  the  fathers  of  science  thought  attainable. 
Now,  in  several  quarters,  amongst  people  with  whom  my 


92  SEPniHUS    FELTOX. 

pursuits  brought  me  in  contact,  I  heard  of  a  certain 
recipe  which  had  been  lost  for  a  generation  or  two,  but 
which,  if  it  could  be  recovered,  would  prove  to  have  the 
true  life-giving  potency  in  it.  It  is  said  that  the  ancestor 
of  a  great  old  family  in  England  was  in  possession  of  this 
secret,  being  a  man  of  science,  and  the  friend  of  Friar 
Bacon,  who  was  said  to  have  concocted  it  himself,  partly 
from  the  precepts  of  his  master,  partly  from  his  own  ex- 
periments, and  it  is  thought  he  might  have  been  living  to 
this  day,  if  he  had'  not  unluckily  been  killed  in  the  wars 
of  the  Roses  ;  for  you  know  no  recipe  for  long  life  would 
be  proof  against  an  old  English  arrow,  or  a  leaden  bullet 
from  one  of  our  own  firelocks." 

"  And  what  has  been  the  history  of  the  thing  after  his 
death  ?  "  asked  Septimius. 

"  It  was  supposed  to  be  preserved  in  the  family,"  said 
the  doctor,  "  and  it  has  always  been  said,  that  the  head 
and  eldest  son  of  that  family  had  it  at  his  option  to  live 
forever,  if  he  could  only  make  up  his  mind  to  it.  But 
seemingly  there  were  difficulties  in  the  way.  There  was 
probably  a  certain  diet  and  regimen  to  be  observed,  cer- 
tain strict  rules  of  life  to  be  kept,  a  certain  asceticism  to 
be  imposed  on  the  person,  which  was  not  quite  agreeable 
to  young  men ;  and  after  the  period  of  youth  was  passed, 
the  human  frame  became  incapable  of  being  regenerated 
from  the  seeds  of  decay  and  death,  which,  by  that  time, 
had  become  strongly  developed  in  it.  In  short,  while 
young,  the  possessor  of  the  secret  found  the  terms  of  im- 
mortal life  too  hard  to  be  accepted,  since  it  implied  the 
giving  up  of  most  of  the  things  that  made  life  desirable 
in  his  view ;  and  when  he  came  to  a  more  reasonable 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  93 

mind,  it  was  too  late.  And  so,  in  all  the  generations 
since  Friar  Bacon's  time,  the  Nortons  have  been  born, 
and  enjoyed  their  young  days  and  worried  through  their 
manhood,  and  tottered  through  their  old  age  (unless 
taken  off  sooner  by  sword,  arrow,  ball,  fever,  or  what 
not),  and  died  in  their  beds,  like  men  that  had  no  such 
option ;  and  so  this  old  yellow  paper  has  done  not  the 
least  good  to  any  mortal.  Neither  do  I  see  how  it  can 
do  any  good  to  you,  since  you  know  not  the  rules,  moral 
or  dietetic,  that  are  essential  to  its  effect.  But  how  did 
you  come  by  it  ?  " 

"It  matters  not  how,"  said  Septimius,  gloomily. 
"  Enough  that  I  am  its  rightful  possessor  and  inheritor. 
Can  you  read  these  old  characters  P " 

"Most  of  them,"  said  the  doctor;  "but  let  me  tell 
you,  my  young  friend,  I  have  no  faith  whatever  in  this 
secret;  and,  having  meddled  with  such  things  myself,  I 
ought  to  know.  The  old  physicians  and  chemists  had 
strange  ideas  of  the  virtues  of  plants,  drugs,  and  min- 
erals, and  equally  strange  fancies  as  to  the  way  of  get- 
ting those  virtues  into  action.  They  would  throw  a 
hundred  different  potencies  into  a  caldron  together,  and 
put  them  on  the  fire,  and  expect  to  brew  a  potency  con- 
taining all  their  potencies,  and  having  a  different  virtue 
of  its  own.  Whereas,  the  most  likely  result  would  be 
that  they  would  counteract  one  another,  and  the  concoc- 
tion be  of  no  virtue  at  all ;  or  else  some  more  powerful 
ingredient  would  tincture  the  whole." 

He  read  the  paper  again,  and  continued :  — 


"  I  see  nothing  else  so  remarkable  in  this  recipe,  as  \ 


that  it  is  chiefly  made  up   of  some  of  the  commonest 


94  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

things  that  grow ;  plants  that  you  set  your  foot  upon  at 
your  very  threshold,  in  your  garden,  in  your  wood-walks, 
•wherever  you  go.  I  doubt  not  old  Aunt  Keziah  knows 
them,  and  very  likely  she  has  brewed  them  up  in  that 
hell-drink,  the  remembrance  of  which  is  still  rankling  in 
my  stomach.  I  thought  I  had  swallowed  the  Devil  him- 
self, whom  the  old  woman  had  been  boiling  down.  It 
would  be  curious  enough  if  the  hideous  decoction  was 
the  same  as  old  Friar  Bacon  and  his  acolyte  discovered 
by  their  science  !  One  ingredient,  however,  one  of  those 
plants,  I  scarcely  think  the  old  lady  can  have  put  into  her 
pot  of  Devil's  elixir ;  for  it  is  a  rare  plant,  that  does  not 
grow  in  these  parts." 

"And  what  is  that?  "  asked  Septimius. 

" Sanguined  sanguinissima"  said  the  doctor ;  " it  has 
ho  vulgar  name ;  but  it  produces  a  very  beautiful  flower, 
which  I  have  never  seen,  though  some  seeds  of  it  were . 
sent  me  by  a  learned  friend  in  Siberia.  The  others,  di- 
vested of  their  Latin  names,  are  as  common  as  plantain, 
pig-weed,  and  burdock ;  and  it  stands  to  reason  that,  if 
vegetable  Nature  has  any  such  wonderfully  efficacious 
medicine  in  store  for  men,  and  means  them  to  use  it,  she 
would  have  strewn  it  everywhere  plentifully  within  their 
reach." 

"  But,  after  all,  it  would  be  a  mockery  on  the  old 
dame's  part,"  said  the  young  man,  somewhat  bitterly, 
"  since  she  would  thus  hold  the  desired  thing  seemingly 
within  our  reach  ;  but  because  she  never  tells  us  how  to 
prepare  and  obtain  its  efficacy,  we  miss  it  just  as  much  as 
if  all  the  ingredients  were  hidden  from  sight  and  knowl- 
edge in  the  centre  of  the  earth.  We  are  the  playthings 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  95 

and  fools  of  Nature,  which  she  amuses  herself  with 
during  our  little  lifetime,  and  then  breaks  for  mere  sport, 
and  laughs  in  our  faces  as  she  does  so." 

"Take  care,  my  good  fellow,"  said  the  doctor,  with 
his  great  coarse  laugh.  "  I  rather  suspect  that  you  have 
already  got  beyond  the  age  when  the  great  medicine 
could  do  you  good ;  that  speech  indicates  a  great  tough- 
ness  and  hardness  and  bitterness  about  the  heart  that 
does  not  accumulate  in  our  tender  years." 

Septimius  took  little  or  no  notice  of  the  raillery  of  the 
grim  old  doctor,  but  employed  the  rest  of  the  time  in 
getting  as  much  information  as  he  could  out  of  his  guest ; 
and  though  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  show  him  the 
precious  and  sacred  manuscript,  yet  he  questioned  him  as 
closely  as  possible  without  betraying  his  secret,  as  to  the 
modes  of  finding  out  cryptic  writings.  The  doctor  was 
not  without  the  perception  that  his  dark-browed,  keen- 
eyed  acquaintance  had  some  purpose  not  openly  avowed 
in  all  these  pertinacious,  distinct  questions  ;  he  discovered 
a  central  reference  in  them  all,  and  perhaps  knew  that 
Septimius  must  have  in  his  possession  some  writing  in 
hieroglyphics,  cipher,  or  other  secret  mode,  that  con- 
veyed instructions  how  to  operate  with  the  strange  recipe 
that  he  had  shown  him. 

"  You  had  better  trust  me  fully,  my  good  sir,"  said  he. 
"  Not  but  what  I  will  give  you  all  the  aid  I  can  without 
it ;  for  you  have  done  me  a  greater  benefit  than  you  are 
aware  of,  beforehand.  No  —  you  will  not  ?  Well,  if 
you  can  change  your  mind,  seek  me  out  in  Boston,  where 
I  have  seen  fit  to  settle  in  the  practice  of  my  profession, 
and  I  will  serve  you  according  to  your  folly  ;  for  folly  it 
is,  I  warn  you." 


96  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

Nothing  else  worthy  of  record  is  known  to  have  passed 
during  the  doctor's  visit ;  and  in  due  time  he  disappeared, 
as  it  were,  in  a  whiff  of  tobacco-smoke,  leaving  an  odor 
of  brandy  and  tobacco  behind  him,  and  a  traditionary 
memory  of  a  wizard  that  had  been  there.  Septimius  went 
to  work  with  what  items  of  knowledge  he  had  gathered 
from  him ;  but  the  interview  had  at  least  made  him  aware 
of  one  thing,  which  was,  that  he  must  provide  himself 
with  all  possible  quantity  of  scientific  knowledge  of  bot- 
any, and  perhaps  more  extensive  knowledge,  in  order  to 
be  able  to  concoct  the  recipe.  It  was  the  fruit  of  all  the 
scientific  attainment  of  the  age  that  produced  it  (so  said 
the  legend,  which  seemed  reasonable  enough),  a  great 
philosopher  had  wrought  his  learning  into  it ;  and  this 
had  been  attempered,  regulated,  improved,  by  the  quick, 
bright  intellect  of  his  scholar.  Perhaps,  thought  Sep- 
timius, another  deep  and  earnest  intelligence  added  to 
these  two  may  bring  the  precious  recipe  to  still  greater 
perfection.  At  least  it  shall  be  tried.  So  thinking,  he 
gathered  together  all  the  books  that  he  could  find  relat- 
ing to  such  studies;  he  spent  one  day,  moreover,  in  a 
walk  to  Cambridge,  where  he  searched  the  alcoves  of  the 
college  library  for  such  works  as  it  contained  ;  and  bor- 
rowing them  from  the  war-disturbed  institution  of  learn- 
ing, he  betook  himself  homewards,  and  applied  himself  to 
the  study  with  an  earnestness  of  zealous  application  that 
perhaps  has  been  seldom  equalled  in  a  study  of  so  quiet 
a  character.  A  month  or  two  of  study,  with  practice 
upon  such  plants  as  he  found  upon  his  hill-top,  and  along 
the  brook  and  in  other  neighboring  localities,  sufficed  to 
do  a  great  deal  for  him.  In  this  pursuit  he  was  assisted 


SEPTIM1US    FELTON.  97 

by  Sybil,  who  proved  to  have  great  knowledge  in  some 
botanical  departments,  especially  among  flowers  ;  and  in 
her  cold  and  quiet  way,  she  met  him  on  this  subject  and 
glided  by  his  side,  as  she  had  done  so  long,  a  companion, 
a  daily  observer  and  observed  of  him,  mixing  herself  up 
with  his  pursuits,  as  if  she  were  an  attendant  sprite  upon 
him. 

But  this  pale  girl  was  not  the  only  associate  of  his 
studies,  the  only  instructress,  whom  Septimius  found. 
The  observation  which  Doctor  Portsoaken  made  about 
the  fantastic  possibility  that  Aunt  Keziah  might  have 
inherited  the  same  recipe  from  her  Indian  ancestry 
which  had  been  struck  out  by  the  science  of  Friar  Bacon 
and  his  pupil  had  not  failed  to  impress  Septimius,  and 
to  remain  on  his  memory.  So,  not  long  after  the  doc- 
tor's departure,  the  young  man  took  occasion  one  even- 
ing to  say  to  his  aunt  that  he  thought  his  stomach  was 
a  little  out  of  order  with  too  much  application,  and  that 
perhaps  she  could  give  him  some  herb-drink  or  other 
that,  would  be  good  for  him. 

"  That  I  can,  Seppy,  my  darling,"  said  the  old  woman, 
"  and  I  'm  glad  you  have  the  sense  to  ask  for  it  at 
last.  Here  it  is  in  this  bottle  ;  and  though  that  foolish, 
blaspheming  doctor  turned  up  his  old  brandy  nose  at 
it,  I  '11  drink  with  him  any  day  and  come  off  better  than 
he." 

So  saying,  she  took  out  of  the  closet  her  brown  jug, 
stopped  with  a  cork  that  had  a  rag  twisted  round  it  to 
make  it  tighter,  filled  a  mug  half  full  of  the  concoction, 
and  set  it  on  the  table  before  Septimius. 

"  There,  child,  smell  of  that ;  the  smell  merely  will  do 
5  O 


98  SEPTIAIIUS    FELTON. 

you  good ;  but  drink  it  down,  and  you  '11  live  the  longer 
for  it." 

"Indeed,  Aunt  Keziah,  is  that  so?"  asked  Septimius, 
a  little  startled  by  a  recommendation  which  in  some  meas- 
ure tallied  with  what  he  wanted  in  a  medicine.  "  That 's 
a  good  quality." 

He  looked  into  the  mug,  and  saw  a  turbid,  yellow 
concoction,  not  at  all  attractive  to  the  eye ;  he  smelt  of 
it,  and  was  partly  of  opinion  that  Aunt  Keziah  had 
mixed  a  certain  unfragrant  vegetable,  called  skunk- 
cabbage,  with  the  other  ingredients  of  her  witch-drink. 
He  tasted  it ;  not  a  mere  sip,  but  a  good,  genuine  gulp, 
being  determined  to  have  real  proof  of  what  the  stuff 
was  in  all  respects.  The  draught  seemed  at  first  to 
burn  in  his  mouth,  unaccustomed  to  any  drink  but 
water,  and  to  go  scorching  all  the  way  down  into  his 
stomach,  making  him  sensible  of  the  depth  of  his  in- 
wards by  a  track  of  fire,  far,  far  down ;  and  then,  worse 
than  the  fire,  came  a  taste  of  hideous  bitterness  and 
nauseousness,  which  he  had  not  previously  conceived  to 
exist,  and  which  threatened  to  stir  up  his  bowels  into 
utter  revolt;  but  knowing  Aunt  Keziah's  touchiness 
with  regard  to  this  concoction,  and  how  sacred  she  held 
it,  he  made  an  effort  of  real  heroism,  squelched  down 
his  agony,  and  kept  his  face  quiet,  with  the  exception  of 
one  strong  convulsion,  which  he  allowed  to  twist  across 
it  for  the  sake  of  saving  his  life. 

"  It  tastes  as  if  it  might  have  great  potency  in  it,  Aunt 
Keziah,"  said  this  unfortunate  young  man ;  "  I  wish  you 
would  tell  me  what  it  is  made  of,  and  how  you  brew  it ; 
for  I  have  observed  you  are  very  strict  and  secret  about 
it." 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  99 

"  Aha !  you  have  seen  that,  have  you  ?  "  said  Aunt 
Keziah,  taking  a  sip  of  her  beloved  liquid,  and  grinning 
at  him  with  a  face  and  eyes  as  yellow  as  that  she  was 
drinking.  In  fact  the  idea  struck  him,  that  in  temper, 
and  all  appreciable  qualities,  Aunt  Keziah  was  a  good 
deal  like  this  drink  of  hers,  having  probably  become  satu- 
rated by  them  while  she  drank  of  it.  And  then,  having 
drunk,  she  gloated  over  it,  and  tasted,  and  smelt  of  the 
cup  of  this  hellish  wine,  as  a  wine-bibber  does  of  that 
which  is  most  fragrant  and  delicate.  "And  you  want  to 
know  how  I  make  it  ?  But  first,  child,  tell  me  honestly, 
do  you  love  this  drink  of  mine?  Otherwise,  here,  and  at 
once,  we  stop  talking  about  it. 

"  I  love  it  for  its  virtues,"  said  Septimius,  temporizing 
with  his  conscience,  "and  would  prefer  it  on  that  account 
to  the  rarest  wines." 

"  So  far  good,"  said  Aunt  Keziah,  who  could  not  well 
conceive  that  her  liquor  should  be  otherwise  than  deli- 
cious to  the  palate.  "  It  is  the  most  virtuous  liquor  that 
ever  was  ;  and  therefore  one  need  not  fear  drinking  too 
much  of  it.  And  you  want  to  know  what  it  is  made  of  ? 
Well ;  I  have  often  thought  of  telling  you,  Seppy,  my 
boy,  when  you  should  come  to  be  old  enough  ;  for  I  have 
no  other  inheritance  to  leave  you,  and  you  are  all  of  my 
blood,  unless  I  should  happen  to  have  some  far-off  uncle 
among  the  Cape  Indians.  But  first,  you  must  know  how 
this  good  drink,  and  the  faculty  of  making  it,  came  down 
to  me  from  the  chiefs,  and  sachems,  and  Peow-wows,  that 
were  your  ancestors  and  mine,  Septimius,  and  from  the 
old  wizard  who  was  my  great-grandfather  and  yours,  and 
who,  they  say,  added  the  fire-water  to  the  other  ingredi- 


100  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

ents,  and  so  gave  it  the  only  one  thing  that  it  wanted  to 
make  it  perfect." 

And  so  Aunt  Keziah,  who  had  now  put  herself  into  a 
most  comfortable  and  jolly  state  by  sipping  again,  and 
after  pressing  Septimius  to  mind  his  draught  (who  de- 
clined, on  the  plea  that  one  dram  at  a  time  was  enough 
for  a  new  beginner,  its  virtues  being  so  strong,  as  well  as 
admirable),  the  old  woman  told  him  a  legend  strangely 
wild  and  uncouth,  and  mixed  up  of  savage  and  civilized 
life,  and  of  the  superstitions  of  both,  but  which  yet  had  a  • 
certain  analogy,  that  impressed  Septimius  much,  to  the 
story  that  the  doctor  had  told  him. 

She  said  that,  many  ages  ago,  there  had  been  a  wild 
sachem  in  the  forest,  a  king  among  the  Indians,  and  from 
whom,  the  old  lady  said,  with  a  look  of  pride,  she  and 
Septimius  were  lineally  descended,  and  were  probably 
the  very  last  who  inherited  one  drop  of  that  royal,  wise, 
and  warlike  blood.  The  sachem  had  lived  very  long, 
longer  than  anybody  knew,  for  the  Indians  kept  no  rec- 
ord, and  could  only  talk  of  a  great  number  of  moons ; 
and  they  said  he  was  as  old,  or  older,  than  the  oldest 
trees;  as  old  as  the  hills  almost,  and  could  remember 
back  to  the  days  of  godlike  men,  who  had  arts  then  for- 
gotten. He  was  a  wise  and  good  man,  and  could  fore- 
tell as  far  into  the  future  as  he  could  remember  into  the 
past ;  and  he  continued  to  live  on,  till  his  people  were 
afraid  that  he  would  live  forever,  and  so  disturb  the 
whole  order  of  nature ;  and  they  thought  it  time  that  so 
good  a  man,  and  so  great  a  warrior  and  wizard,  should 
b*  gone  to  the  happy  hunting-grounds,  and  that  so  wise 
*  Counsellor  should  go  and  tell  his  experience  of  life  to 


SEPTIM1US    FELTON.  101 

the  Great  Father,  and  give  him  an  account  of  matters 
here,  and  perhaps  lead  him  to  make  some  changes  in  the 
conduct  of  the  lower  world.  And  so,  all  these  things 
duly  considered,  they  very  reverently  assassinated  the 
great,  never-dying  sachem  ;  for  though  safe  against  dis- 
ease, and  undecayuble  by  age,  he  was  capable  of  being 
killed  by  violence,  though  the  hardness  of  his  skull  broke 
to  fragments  the  stone  tomahawk  with  which  they  at  first 
tried  to  kill  him. 

So  a  deputation  of  the  best  and  bravest  of  the  tribe 
went  to  the  great  sachem,  and  told  him  their  thought, 
and  reverently  desired  his  consent  to  be  put  out  of  the 
world;  and  the  undying  one  agreed  with__them  that  it. 
was  better  for  liis  own  comfort  that  ho  should  die,  and 
that  he  had  long  been  weary  of  the  world,  having  learned 
all  that  it  could  teach  him,  and  having,  chiefly,  learned 
to  despair  of  ever  making  the  red  race  much  better  than 
they  now  were.  So  he  cheerfully  consented,  and  told 
them  to  kill  him  if  they  could ;  and  first  they  tried  the 
stone  hatchet,  which  was  broken  against  his  skull ;  and 
then  they  shot  arrows  at  him,  which  could  not  pierce  the 
toughness  of  his  skin ;  and  finally  they  plasterejl  up  his 
nose  and  mouth  (which  kept  uttering  wisdom  to  the  last) 
with  clay  and  set  him  to  bake  in  the  sun;  so  at  last  his 
life  burnt  out  of  his  breast,  tearing  his  body  to  pieces, 
and  he  died. 

\_Ma&e  this  legend  grotesque,  and  express  the  weariness 
of  the  tribe  at  the  inToleratle  control  Hie  HMdptup  one  had 
of  them  ;  his  always  bringing  u/j  jj/wyj/x  f/'om  his  own 
experience,  never  consenting  to  anything  new,  and  so  im- 
peding progress  ;  his  habits  hardening  into  him,  his  as- 


102  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

cribing  to  himself  all  wisdom,  and  depriving  everybody  of 
his  right  to  successive  command ;  his  endless  talk,  and 
dwelling  on  the  past,  so  that  the  world  could  not  bear  him. 
Describe  his  ascetic  and  severe  habits,  hit  rigid  calmness, 
etc.] 

But  before  the  great  sagamore  died  he  imparted  to 
a  chosen  one  of  his  tribe,  the  next  wisest  to  himself, 
the  secret  of  a  potent  and  delicious  drink,  the  constant 
imbibing  of  which,  together  with  his  abstinence  from 
luxury  and  passion,  had  kept  him  alive  so  long,  and 
would  doubtless  have  compelled  him  to  live  forever. 
This  drink  was  compounded  of  many  ingredients,  all  of 
which  were  remembered  and  handed  down  in  tradition, 
save  one,  which,  either  because  it  was  nowhere  to  be 
found,  or  for  some  other  reason,  was  forgotten ;  so  that 
the  drink  ceased  to  give  immortal  life  as  before.  They  i 
say  it  was  a  beautiful  purple  flower.  [Perhaps  the  Devil\ 
taught  him  thednjik^QrelseJhe  Great  Spirit,  —  (lou^fjd\ 
which.]  But  it  still  was  a  most  excellent  drink,  and 
conducive  to  health,  and  the  cure  of  all  diseases;  and 
the  Indians  had  it  at  the  time  of  the  settlement  by  the 
English,;  and  at  one  of  those  wizard  meetings  in  the 
forest,  where  the  Black  Man  used  to  meet  his  red  chil- 
dren and  his  white  ones,  and  be  jolly  with  them,  a  great 
Indian  wizard  taught  the  secret  to  Septimius's  great- 
grandfather,  who  was  a  wizard,  and  died  for  it;  and  he, 
in  return,  taught  the  Indians  to  mix  it  with  rum,  think- 
ing that  this  might  be  the  very  ingredient  that  was  miss- 
ing, and  that  by  adding  it  he  might  give  endless  life  to 
himself  and  all  his  Indian  friends,  among  whom  he  had 
taken  a  wife. 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  103 

"  But  your  great-grandfather,  you  know,  had  not  a 
fair  chance  to  test  its  virtues,  having  been  hanged 
for  a  wizard ;  and  as  for  the  Indians,  they  probably 
mixed  too  much  fire-water  with  their  liquid,  so  that  it 
burnt  them  up,  and  they  all  died ;  and  my  mother,  and 
her  mother,  —  who  taught  the  drink  to  me,  —  and  her 
mother  afore  her,  thought  it  a  sin  to  try  to  live  longer 
than  the  Lord  pleased,  so  they  let  themselves  die.  And 
though  the  drink  is  good,  Septimius,  and  toothsome, 
as  you  see,  yet  I  sometimes  feel  as  if  I  were  getting  old, 
like  other  people,  and  may  die  in  the  course  of  the  next 
half-century ;  so  perhaps  the  rum  was  not  just  the  thing 
that  was  wanting  to  make  up  the  recipe.  But  it  is  very 
good  !  Take  a  drop  more  of  it,  dear." 

"  Not  at  present,  I  thank  you,  Aunt  Keziah,"  said 
Septimius,  gravely ;  "  but  will  you  tell  me  what  the 
ingredients  are,  and  how  you  make  it  P " 

"  Yes,  I  will,  my  boy,  and  you  shall  write  them 
down,"  said  the  old  woman ;  "  for  it 's  a  good  drink, 
and  none  the  worse,  it  may  be,  for  not  making  you  live 
forever.  I  sometimes  think  I  had  as  lief  go  to  heaven 
as  keep  on  living  here." 

Accordingly,  making  Septimius  take  pen  and  ink,  she 
proceeded  to  tell  him  a  list  of  plants  and  herbs,  and 
forest  productions,  and  he  was  surprised  to  find  that  it 
agreed  most  wonderfully  with  the  recipe  contained  in  the 
old  manuscript,  as  he  had  puzzled  it  out,  and  as  it  had 
been  explained  by  the  doctor.  There  were  a  few  varia- 
tions, it  is  true ;  but  even  here  there  was  a  close  analogy, 
plants  indigenous  to  America  being  substituted  for  cog- 
nate productions,  the  growth  of  Europe.  .Then  there 


104«  SEPTIM1US    FELTOX. 

was  another  difference  in  the  mode  of  preparation,  Aunt 
Keziah's  nostrum  being  a  concoction,  whereas  the  old 
manuscript  gave  a  process  of  distillation.  This  simi- 
larity had  a  strong  effect  on  Septimius's  imagination. 
Here  was,  in  one  case,  a  drink  suggested,  as  might  be 
supposed,  to  a  primitive  people  by  something  similar  to 
that  instinct  by  which  the  brute  creation  recognizes  the 
medicaments  suited  to  its  needs,  so  that  they  mixed  up 
fragrant  herbs  for  reasons  wiser  than  they  knew,  and 
made  them  into  a  salutary  potion  ;  and  here,  again,  was 
a  drink  contrived  by  the  utmost  skill  of  a  great  civilized 
philosopher,  searching  the  whole  field  of  science  for  his 
purpose;  and  these  two  drinks  proved,  in  all  essential 
particulars,  to  be  identically  the  same. 

"O  Aunt  Keziah,"  said  he,  with  a  longing  earnest- 
ness, "  are  you  sure  that  you  cannot  remember  that  one 
ingredient  ?  " 

"  No,  Septimius,  I  cannot  possibly  do  it,"  said  she. 
"  I  have  tried  many  things,  skunk-cabbage,  wormwood, 
and  a  thousand  things ;  for  it  is  truly  a  pity  that  the 
chief  benefit  of  the  thing  should  be  lost  for  so  little. 
.  But  the  only  effect  was,  to  spoil  the  good  taste  of  the 
stuff,  and,  two  or  three  times,  to  poison  myself,  so  that 
I  broke  out  all  over  blotches,  and  once  lost  the  use  of 
my  left  arm,  and  got  a  dizziness  in  the  head,  and  a  rheu- 
matic twist  in  my  knee,  a  hardness  of  hearing,  and  a 
dimness  of  sight,  and  the  trembles;  all  of  which  I  cer- 
tainly believe  to  have  been  caused  by  my  putting  some- 
thing else  into  this  blessed  drink  besides  the  good  New 
England  rum.  Stick  to  that,  Seppy,  my  dear." 

So  saying,  Aunt  Keziah  took  yet  another  sip  of  the 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  105 

beloved  liquid,  after  vaiiily  pressing  Septimius  to  do  the 
like ;  and  tbeu  lighting  her  old  clay  pipe,  she  sat  down 
in  the  chimney-corner,  meditating,  dreaming,  muttering 
pious  prayers  and  ejaculations,  and  sometimes  looking 
up  the  wide  flue  of  the  chimney,  with  thoughts,  perhaps, 
how  delightful  it  must  have  been  to  fly  up  there,  in  old 
times,  on  excursions  by  midnight  into  the  forest,  where 
was  the  Black  Man,  and  the  Puritan  deacons  and  ladies, 
and  those  wild  Indian  ancestors  of  hers  ;  'and  where  the 
wilduess  of  the  forest  was  so  grim  and  delightful,  and  so 
unlike  the  commonplaceness  in  which  she  spent  her  life. 
Tor  thus  did  the  savage  strain  of  the  womau,  mixed  up 
as  it  was  with  the  other  weird  and  religious  parts  of  her 
composition,  sometimes  snatch  lier  back  into  barbarian 
life  and  its  instincts;  and  in  Septimius,  though  further 
diluted,  and  modified  likewise  by  higher  cultivation,  there 
•was  the  same  tendency. 

Septimius  escaped  from  the  old  woman,  and  was  glad 
to  breathe  the  free  air  again;  so  much  had  he  been 
wrought  upon  by  her  wild  legends  and  wild  character, 
the  more  powerful  by  its  analogy  with  his  own;  and 
perhaps,  too,  his  brain  had  been  a  little  bewildered  by 
the  draught  of  her  diabolical  concoction  which  she  had 
compelled  him  to  take.  At  any  rate,  he  was  glad  to 
escape  to  his  hill-top,  the  free  air  of  which  had  doubt- 
less contributed  to  keep  him  in  health  through  so  long 
a  course  of  morbid  thought  and  estranged  study  as  he 
had  addicted  himself  to. 

Here,  as  it  happened,  he  found  both  Rose  Garfield 
and  Sybil  Dacy,  whom  the  pleasant  summer  evening 
had  brought  out  They  had  formed  a  friendship,  or  at 
5* 


106  SEPTIMIUS    FELTOX. 

least  society ;  and  there  could  not  well  be  a  pair  more 
unlike,  —  the  one  so  natural,  so  healthy,  so  fil  to  live  in 
the  world;  the  other  such  a  morbid,  pale  thing.  So 
there  they  were,  walking  arm  in  arm,  with  one  arm 
round  each  other's  waist,  as  girls  love  to  do.  They 
greeted  the  young  man  in  their  several  ways,  and  began 
to  walk  to  and  fro  together,  looking  at  the  sunset  as  it 
came  on,  and  talking  of  things  on  earth  and  in  the  clouds. 
"  When  has  Robert  Hagburn  been  heard  from  ? " 
asked  Septimius,  who,  involved  in  his  own  pursuits,  was 
altogether  behindhand  in  the  matters  of  the  war, — 
shame  to  him  for  it ! 

"  There  came  news,  two  days  past,"  said  Rose,  blush- 
ing. "  He  is  on  his  way  home  with  the  remnant  of  Gen- 
eral Arnold's  command,  and  will  be  here  soon." 

"He  is  a  brave  fellow,  Robert,"  said  Septimius, 
carelessly.  "  And  I  know  not,  since  life  is  so  short,  that 
anything  better  can  be  done  with  it  than  to  risk  it  as  he 
does." 

"  I  truly  think  not,"  said  Rose  Garfield,  composedly. 
"  What  a  blessing  it  is  to  mortals,"  said  Sybil  Dacy, 
"  what  a  kindness  of  Providence,  that  life  is  made  so 
uncertain  ;  that  death  is  thrown  in  among  the  possibili- 
ties of  our  being ;  that  these  awful  mysteries  are  thrown 
around  us,  into  which  we  may  vanish  !  For,  without  it, 
how  would  it  be  possible  to  be  heroic,  how  should  we 
plod  along  in  commonplaces  forever,  never  dreaming  high 
things,  never  risking  anything  ?  For  my  part,  I  think 
man  is  more  favored  than  the  angels,  and  made  capable  of 
higher  heroism,  greater  virtue,  and  of  a  more  excellent 
spirit  than  they,  because  we  have  such  a  mystery  of  grief 


SEPT1MIUS    FELTON.  107 

and  terror  around  us ;  whereas  tliey,  being  in  a  certainty 
of  God's  light,  seeing  his  goodness  and  his  purposes  more 
perfectly  than  we,  cannot  be  so  brave  as  often  poor  weak 
man,  and  weaker  woman,  lias  the  opportunity  to  be,  and 
sometimes  makes  use  of  it.  God  gave  the  whole  world 
to  man,  and  if  he  is  left  alone  with  it,  it  will  make  a  clod 
of  him  at  last;  but,  to  remedy  that,  God  gave  man  a 
grave,  and  it  redeems  all,  while  it  seems  to  destroy  all, 
and  makes  an  immortal  spirit  of  him  in  the  end." 

"  Dear  Sybil,  you  are  inspired,"  said  Rose,  gazing  in 
her  face. 

"  I  think  you  ascribe  a  great  deal  too  much  potency  to 
the  grave,"  said  Septimius,  pausing  involuntarily  alone 
by  the  little  hillock,  whose  contents  he  knew  so  well. 
"  The  grave  seems  to  me  a  vile  pitfall,  put  right  in  our 
pathway,  and  catching  most  of  us,  —  all  of  us,  —  causing 
us  to  tumble  in  at  the  most  inconvenient  opportunities, 
so  that  all  human  life  is  a  jest  and  a  farce,  just  for  the  / 
sake  of  this  inopportune  death ;  for  I  observe  it  never 
waits  for  us  to  accomplish  anything :  we  may  have  the 
salvation  of  a  country  in  hand,  but  we  are  none  the  less 
likely  to  die  for  that.  So  that,  being  a  believer,  on  the 
whole,  in  the  wisdom  and  graciousness  of  Providence,  I 
am  convinced  that  dying  is  a  mistake,  and  that  by  and 
by  we  shall  overcome  it.  I  say  there  is  no  use  in  the 
grave." 

"  I  still  adhere  to  what  I  said,"  answered  Sybil  Dacy  ; 
"  and  besides,  there  is  another  use  of  a  grave  which  I  have 
often  observed  in  old  English  graveyards,  where  the  moss 
grows  green,  and  embosses  the  letters  of  the  gravestones  ; 
and  also  graves  are  very  good  for  flower-beds." 


108  SEPTIMIUS    FELTOX. 

Nobody  ever  could  tell  when  the  strange  girl  was  going 
to  say  what  was  laughable,  —  when  what  was  melancholy ; 
and  neither  of  Sybil's  auditors  knew  quite  what  to  make 
of  this  speech.  Neither  could  Septimius  fail  to  be  a  lit- 
tle startled  by  seeing  her,  as  she  spoke  of  the  grave  as  a 
flower-bed,  stoop  down  to  the  little  hillock  to  examine 
the  flowers,  which,  indeed,  seemed  to  prove  her  words  by 
growing  there  in  strange  abundance,  and  of  many  sorts  ; 
so  that,  if  they  could  all  have  bloomed  at  once,  the  spot 
would  have  looked  like  a  bouquet  by  itself,  or  as  if  the 
earth  were  richest  in  beauly  there,  or  as  if  seeds  had  been 
lavished  by  some  florist.  Septimius  could  not  account 
for  it,  for  though  the  hillside  did  produce  certain  flowers, 
—  the  aster,  the  golden-rod,  the  violet,  and  other  such 
simple  and  common  things, — yet  this  seemed  as  if  a 
carpet  of  bright  colors  had  been  thrown  down  there  and 
covered  the  spot. 

"  This  is  very  strange,"  said  he. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sybil  Dacy,  "  there  is  some  strange  rich- 
ness in  this  little  spot  of  soil." 

"  Where  could  the  seeds  have  come  from  ?  —  that  is 
the  greatest  wonder,"  said  Rose.  "  You  might  almost 
teach  me  botany,  methiuks,  on  this  one  spot." 

"  Do  you  know  this  plant  ?  "  asked  Sybil  of  Septimius, 
pointing  to  one  not  yet  in  flower,  but  of  singular  leaf, 
that  was  thrusting  itself  up  out  of  the  ground,  on  the 
very  centre  of  the  grave,  over  where  the  breast  of  the 
sleeper  below  might  seem  to  be.  "  I  think  there  is  no 
other  here  like  it." 

Septimius  stooped  down  to  examine  it,  and  was  con- 
vinced that  it  was  unlike  anything  he  had  seen  of  the 


SEPT1MIUS    FELTON.  109 

flower  kind ;  a  leaf  of  a  dark  green,  with  purple  veins 
traversing  it,  it  bad  a  sort  of  questionable  aspect,  as  some 
plants  have,  so  that  you  would  think  it  very  likely  to 
be  poison,  and  would  not  like  to  touch  or  smell  very  inti' 
mately,  without  first  inquiring  who  would  be  its  guaran- 
tee that  it  should  do  no  mischief.  That  it  had  some  rich- 
ness or  other,  either  baneful  or  beneficial,  you  could  not 
doubt. 

"  I  think  it  poisonous,"  said  Rose  Garfield,  shudder- 
ing, for  she  was  a  person  so  natural  she  hated  poisonous 
things,  or  anything  speckled  especially,  and  did  not,  in- 
deed, love  strangeness.  "Yet  I  should  not  wonder  if 
it  bore  a  beautiful  flower  by  and  by.  Nevertheless,  if  I 
were  to  do  just  as  I  feel  inclined,  I  should  root  it  up  and 
fling  it  away." 

"  Shall  she  do  so  P  "  said  Sybil  to  Septimius. 

"  Not  for  the  world,"  said  he,  hastily.  "  Above  all 
things,  I  desire  to  see  what  will  come  of  this  plant." 

"Be  it  as  you  please,"  said  Sybil.  "Meanwhile,  if 
you  like  to  sit  down  here  and  listen  to  me,  I  will  tell  you 
a  story  that  happens  to  come  into  my  mind  just  now, 
—  I  cannot  tell  why.  It  is  a  legend  of  an  old  hall  that  I 
know  well,  and  have  known  from  my  childhood,  in  one 
of  the  northern  counties  of  England,  where  I  was  born. 
Would  you  like  to  hear  it,  Rose  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  all  things,"  said  she.  "  I  like  all  stories  of 
hall  and  cottage  in  the  old  country,'  though  now  we  must 
not  call  it  our  country  any  more." 

Sybil  looked  at  Septimius,  as  if  to  inquire  whether  he, 
too,  chose  to  listen  to  her  story,  and  he  made  answer :  — • 

"  Yes,  I  shall  like  to  hear  the  legend,  if  it  is  a  genuine 


110  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

one  that  has  been  adopted  into  the  popular  belief,  and 
came  down  in  chimney-corners  with  the  smoke  and  soot 
that  gathers  there ;  and  incrusted  over  with  humanity, 
by  passing  from  one  homely  mind  to  another.  Then, 
such  stories  get  to  be  true,  in  »  certain  sense,  and  indeed 
in  that  sense  may  be  called  true  throughout,  for  the  very 
nucleus,  the  fiction  in  them,  seems  to  have  come  out  of 
the  heart  of  man  in  a  way  that  cannot  be  imitated  of 
malice  aforethought.  Nobody  can  make  a  tradition ;  it 
takes  a  century  to  make  it." 

"I  know  not  whether  this  legend  has  the  character 
you  mean,"  said  Sybil,  "  but  it  has  lived  much  more  than 
a  century ;  and  here  it  is. 

"  On  the  threshold  of  one  of  the  doors  of Hall 

there  is  a  bloody  footstep  impressed  into  the  doorstep, 
and  ruddy  as  if  the  bloody  foot  had  j  ust  trodden  there ; 
and  it  is  averred  that,  on  a  certain  night  of  the  year,  and 
at  a  certain  hour  of  the  night,  if  you  go  and  look  at  that 
doorstep  you  will  see  the  mark  wet  with  fresh  blood. 
Some  have  pretended  to  say  that  this  appearance  of 
blood  was  but  dew ;  but  can  dew  redden  a  cambric  hand- 
kerchief ?  Will  it  crimson  the  finger-tips  when  you  touch 
it  ?  And  that  is  what  the  bloody  footstep  will  surely  do 
when  the  appointed  night  and  hour  come  round,  this 
very  year,  just  as  it  would  three  hundred  years  ago. 

"  Well ;  but  how  did  it  come  there  ?  I  know  not  pre- 
cisely in  what  age  it  was,  but  long  ago,  when  light  was 
beginning  to  shine  into  what  were  called  the  dark  ages, 

there  was  a  lord  of Hall  who  applied  himself  deeply 

to  knowledge  and  science,  under  the  guidance  of  the 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  Ill 

wisest  man  of  that,  age,  —  a  man  so  wise  that  he  was 
thought  to  be  a  wizard ;  and,  indeed,  he  may  have  been 
one,  if  to  be  a  wizard  consists  in  having  command  over 
secret  powers  of  nature,  that  other  men  do  not  even  sus- 
pect the  existence  of,  and  the  control  of  which  enables 
one  to  do  feats  that  seem  as  wonderful  as  raising  the 
dead.  It  is  needless  to  tell  you  all  the  strange  stories 
that  have  survived  to  this  day  about  the  old  Hall ;  and 
how  it  is  believed  that  the  master  of  it,  owing  to  his 
ancient  science,  has  still  a  sort  of  residence  there,  and 
control  of  the  place ;  and  how,  in  one  of  the  chambers, 
there  is  still  his  antique  table,  and  his  chair,  and  some 
rude  old  instruments  and  machinery,  and  a  book,  and 
everything  in  readiness,  just  as  if  he  might  still  come 
back  to  finish  some  experiment.  What  it  is  important 
to  say  is,  that  one  of  the  chief  things  to  which  the  old 
lord  applied  himself  was  to  discover  the  means  of  pro- 
longing his  own  life,  so  that  its  duration  should  be  indefi- 
nite, if  not  infinite ;  and  such  was  his  science,  that  he 
was  believed  to  have  attained  this  magnificent  and  awful 
purpose. 

"So,  as  you  may  suppose,  the  man  of  science  had 
great  joy  in  having  done  this  thing,  both  for  the  pride 
of  it,  and  because  it  was  so  delightful  a  thing  to  have 
before  him  the  prospect  of  endless  time,  which  he  might 
spend  in  adding  more  and  more  to  his  science,  and  so 
doing  good  to  the  world;  for  the  chief  obstruction  to 
the  improvement  of  the  world  and  the  growth  of  knowl- 
edge is,  that  mankind  cannot  go  straightforward  in  it, 
but  continually  there  have  to  be  new  beginnings,  and  it 
takes  every  new  man  half  his  life,  if  not  the  whole  of  it, 


112  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

to  come  up  to  the  point  where  his  predecessor  left  off. 
Aud  so  this  uoble  man  — this  mail  of  a  noble  purpose  — 
spent  many  years  in  finding  out  this  mighty  secret ;  and 
at  last,  it  is  said,  he  succeeded.  But  on  what  terms  F 

"Well,  it  is  said  that  the  terms  were  dreadful  and 
horrible ;  insomuch  that  the  wise  man  hesitated  whether 
it  were  lawful  and  desirable  to  take  advantage  of  them, 
great  as  was  the  object  in  view. 

"  You  see,  the  object  of  the  lord  of Hall  was  to 

take  a  life  from  the  course  of  Nature,  and  Nature  did  not 
choose  to  be  defrauded ;  so  that,  great  as  was  the  power 
of  this  scientific  man  over  her,  she  would  not  consent 
that  he  should  escape  the  necessity  of  dying  at  his 
proper  time,  except  upon  condition  of  sacrificing  some 
other  life  for  his ;  and  this  was  to  be  done  once  for  every 
thirty  years  that  he  chose  to  live,  thirty  years  being  the 
account  of  a  generation  of  man ;  and  if  in  any  way,  in 
that  time,  this  lord  could  be  the  death  of  a  human  being, 
that  satisfied  the  requisition,  and  he  might  live  on. 
There  is  a  form  of  the  legend  which  says,  that  one  of 
the  ingredients  of  the  drink  which  the  nobleman  brewed 
by  his  science  was  the  heart's  blood  of  a  pure  young  boy 
or  girl.  But  this  I  reject,  as  too  coarse  an  idea ;  and, 
indsed,  I  think  it  may  be  taken  to  mean  symbolically, 
that  the  person  who  desires  to  engross  to  himself  more 
than  his  share  of  human  life  must  do  it  by  sacrificing  to 
his  selfishness  some  dearest  interest  of  another  person, 
who  has  a  good  right  to  life,  and  may  be  as  useful  in  it 
as  he. 

"Now,  this  lord  was  a  just  man  by  nature,  and  if  he 
had  gone  astray,  it  was  greatly  by  reason  of  his  earnest 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  113 

wish  to  do  something  for  the  poor,  wicked,  struggliug, 
bloody,  uncomfortable  race  of  man,  to  which  he  belonged. 
He  bethought  himself  whether  lie  would  have  a  right  to 
take  the  life  of  one  of  those  creatures,  without  their  own 
consent,  hi  order  to  prolong  his  own ;  and  after  much 
arguing  to  and  fro,  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he 
should  not  have  the  right,  unless  it  were  a  life  over 
which  he  had  control,  aud  which  was  the  next  to  his 
own.  He  looked  round  him ;  he  was  a  lonely  and  ab- 
stracted man,  secluded  by  his  studies  from  human  affec- 
tions, and  there  was  but  one  human  being  whom  he 
cared  for ;  —  that  was  a  beautiful  kinswoman,  an  orphan, 
whom  his  father  had  brought  up,  and,  dying,  left  her  to 
his  care.  There  was  great  kindness  and  affection  —  as 
great  as  the  abstracted  nature  of  his  pursuits  would  allow 
—  on  the  part  of  this  lord  towards  the  beautiful  young 
girl ;  but  not  what  is  called  love,  —  at  least,  he  never  ac- 
knowledged it  to  himself.  But,  looking  into  his  heart,  he 
saw  that  she,  if  any  one,  was  to  be  the  person  whom  the 
sacrifice  demanded,  and  that  he  might  kill  twenty  others 
without  effect,  but  if  he  took  the  life  of  this  one,  it  would 
make  the  charm  strong  and  good. 

"  My  friends,  I  have  meditated  many  a  time  on  this 
ugly  feature  of  my  legend,  and  am  unwilling  to  take  it  in 
the  literal  sense ;  so  I  conceive  its  spiritual  meaning  (for 
everything,  you  know,  has  its  spiritual  meaning,  which 
to  the  literal  meaning  is  what  the  soul  is  to  the  body),  — 
its  spiritual  meaning  was,  that  to  the  deep  pursuit  of  sci- 
ence we  must  sacrifice  great  part  of  the  joy  of  life  ;  that 
nobody  can  be  great,  and  do  great  things,  without  giving 
up  to  death,  so  far  as  he  regards  his  enjoyment  of  it, 


114  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

much  that  he  would  gladly  enjoy ;  and  in  that  sense  I 
choose  to  take  it.  But  the  earthly  old  legend  will  have 
it,  that  this  mad,  high-minded,  heroic,  murderous  lord 
did  insist  upon  it  with  himself  that  he  must  murder  this 
poor,  loving,  and  beloved  child. 

"I  do  not  wish  to  delay  upon  this  horrible  matter, 
and  to  tell  you  how  he  argued  it  with  himself;  and  how, 
the  more  and  more  he  argued  it,  the  more  reasonable  it 
seemed,  the  more  absolutely  necessary,  the  more  a  duty 
that  the  terrible  sacrifice  should  be  made.  Here  was 
this  great  good  to  be  done  to  mankind,  and  all  that 
stood  in  the  way  of  it  was  one  little  delicate  life,  so  frail 
that  it  was  likely  enough  to  be  blown  out,  any  day,  by 
the  mere  rude  blast  that  the  rush  of  life  creates,  as  it 
streams  along,  or  by  any  slightest  accident;  so  good 
and  pure,  too,  that  she  was  quite  unfit  for  this  world, 
and  not  capable  of  any  happiness  in  it ;  and  all  that  was 
asked  of  her  was  to  allow  herself  to  be  transported  to  a 
place  where  she  would  be  happy,  and  would  find  com- 
panions fit  for  her,  —  which  he,  her  only  present  com- 
panion, certainly  was  not.  In  fine,  he  resolved  to  shed 
the  sweet,  fragrant  blood  of  this  little  violet  that  loved 
him  so. 

"  Well ;  let  us  hurry  over  this  part  of  the  story  as 
fast  as  we  can.  He  did  slay  this  pure  young  girl ;  he 
took  her  into  the  wood  near  the  house,  an  old  wood  that 
is  standing  yet,  with  some  of  its  magnificent  oaks  ;  and 
then  he  plunged  a  dagger  into  her  heart,  after  they  had 
had  a  very  tender  and  loving  talk  together,  in  which  he 
had  tried  to  open  the  matter  tenderly  to  her,  and  make 
her  understand,  that  though  he  was  to  slay  her,  it  was 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  115 

really  for  the  very  reason  that  he  loved  her  better  than 
anything  else  in  the  world,  and  that  he  would  far  rather 
die  himself,  if  that  would  answer  the  purpose  at  all. 
Indeed,  he  is  said  to  have  oifered  her  the  alternative  of 
slaying  Ifim,  and  taking  upon  herself  the  burden  of  in- 
definite life,  and  the  studies  and  pursuits  by  which  he 
meant  to  benefit  mankind.  But  she,  it  is  said,  —  this 
noble,  pure,  loving  child,  —  she  looked  up  into  his  face 
and  smiled  sadly,  and  then  snatching  the  dagger  from 
him,  she  plunged  it  into  her  own  heart.  I  cannot  tell 
whether  this  be  true  or  whether  she  waited  to  be  killed 
by  him ;  but  this  I  know,  that  in  the  same  circumstances 
I  think  I  should  have  saved  my  lover  or  my  friend  the 
pain  of  killing  me.  There  she  lay  dead,  at  any  rate,  and 
he  buried  her  in  the  wood,  and  returned  to  the  house ; 
and,  as  it  happened,  he  had  set  his  right  foot  in  her 
blood,  and  his  shoe  was  wet  in  it,  and  by  some  miracu- 
lous fate,  it  left  a  track  all  along  the  wood-path,  and  into 
the  house,  and  on  the  stone  steps  of  the  threshold,  and 
up  into  his  chamber,  all  along ;  and  the  servants  saw  it 
the  next  day,  and  wondered,  and  whispered,  and  missed 
the  fair  young  girl,  and  looked  askance  at  their  lord's 
right  foot,  and  turned  pale,  all  of  them,  as  death. 

"And  next,  the  legend  says,  that  Sir  Forrester  was 
struck  with  horror  at  what  he  had  done,  and  could  not 
bear  the  laboratory  where  he  had  toiled  so  long,  and  was 
sick  to  death  of  the  object  that  he  had  pursued,  and  was 
most  miserable,  and  fled  from  his  old  Hall,  and  was  gone 
full  many  a  day.  But  all  the  while  he  was  gone  there 
was  the  mark  of  a  bloody  footstep  impressed  upon  the 
stone  doorstep  of  the  Hall.  The  track  had  lain  all  along 


116  SEPTIMICS    FELTON. 

through  the  wood-path,  and  across  the  lawn,  to  the  old 
Gothic  door  of  the  Hall ;  but  the  rain,  the  English  rain 
that  is  always  falling,  had  come  the  next  day,  and 
washed  it  all  away.  The  track  had  lain,  too,  across  the 
broad  hall,  and  up  the  stairs,  and  into  the  lord's  study ; 
but  there  it  had  lain  on  the  rushes  that  were  strewn 
there,  and  these  the  servants  had  gathered  carefully  up, 
and  thrown  them  away,  and  spread  fresh  ones.  So  that 
it  was  only  on  the  threshold  that  the  mark  remained. 

"But  the  legend  says,  that  wherever  Sir  Forrester 
went,  in  his  wanderings  about  the  world,  he  left  a  bloody 
track  behind  him.  It  was  wonderful,  and  very  incon- 
venient, this  phenomenon.  When  he  went  into  a  church, 
you  would  see  the  track  up  the  broad  aisle,  and  a  little 
red  puddle  in  the  place  where  he  sat  or  knelt.  Once  he 
went  to  the  king's  court,  and  there  being  a  track  up  to 
the  very  throne,  the  king  frowned  upon  him,  so  that  he 
never  came  there  any  more.  Nobody  could  tell  how  it 
happened;  his  foot  was  not  seen  to  bleed,  only  there 
was  the  bloody  track  behind  him,  wherever  he  went; 
and  he  was  a  horror-stricken  man,  always  looking  behind 
him  to  see  the  track,  and  then  hurrying  onward,  as  if  to 
escape  his  own  tracks  ;  but  always  they  followed  him  as 
fast. 

"  In  the  hall  of  feasting,  there  was  the  bloody  track 
to  his  chair.  The  learned  men  whom  he  consulted  about 
this  strange  difficulty  conferred  with  one  another,  and 
with  him,  who  was  equal  to  any  of  them,  and  pished  and 
pshawed,  and  said,  'O,  there  is  nothing  miraculous  in 
this ;  it  is  only  a  natural  infirmity,  which  can  easily  be 
put  an  end  to,  though,  perhaps,  the  stoppage  of  such 


SEPT1MIUS    FKLTOX.  117 

an  evacuation  will  cause  damage  to  other  parts  of  tbe^ 
frame.'  Sir  Forrester  always  said,  '  Stop  it,  my  learned 
brethren,  if  you  can  ;  no  matter  what  the  consequences.' 
And  they  did  their  best,  but  without  result ;  so  that  he 
was  still  compelled  to  leave  his  bloody  track  on  their 
college-rooms  and  combination-rooms,  the  same  as  else- 
where ;  and  in  street  and  in  wilderness  ;  yes,  and  in  the 
battle-field,  they  say,  his  track  looked  freshest  and  red- 
dest of  all.  So,  at  last,  finding  the  notice  he  attracted 
inconvenient,  this  unfortunate  lord  deemed  it  best  to  go 
back  to  his  own  Hall,  where,  living  among  faithful  old  ^ 
servants  born  in  the  family,  he  could  hush  the  matter  up 
better  than  elsewhere,  and  not  be  stared  at  continually, 
or,  glancing  round,  see  people  holding  up  their  hands  in 
terror  at  seeing  a  bloody  track  behind  him.  And  so  home 
he  came,  and  there  he  saw  the  bloody  track  on  the  door- 
step, and  dolefully  went  into  the  hall,  and  up  the  stairs, 
an  old  servant  ushering  him  into  his  chamber,  and  half 
a  dozen  others  following  behind,  gazing,  shuddering, 
pointing  with  quivering  fingers,  looking  horror-stricken 
in  one  another's  pale  faces,  and  the  moment  he  had 
passed,  running  to  get  fresh  rushes,  and  to  scour  the 
stairs.  The  next  day,  Sir  Forrester  went  into  the  wood, 
and  by  the  aged  oak  he  found  a  grave,  and  on  the  grave  \/f 
he  beheld  a  beautiful  crimson  flower ;  the  most  gorgeous 
and  beautiful,  surely,  that  ever  grew ;  so  rich  it  looked, 
so  full  of  potent  juice.  That  flower  he  gathered;  and 
the  spirit  of  his  scientific  pursuits  coming  upon  him,  he 
knew  that  this  was  the  flower,  produced  out  of  a  human 
life,  that  was  essential  to  the  perfection  of  his  recipe  for 
immortality ;  and  he  made  the  drink,  and  drank  it,  and 


118  SEPTIMIUS    FELTOX. 

became  immortal  in  woe  and  agony,  still  studying,  still 
'growing  wiser  and  more  wretched  in  every  age.  By 
and  by  he  vanished  from  the  old  Hall,  but  not  by  death  ; 
for  from  generation  to  generation,  they  say  that  a  bloody 
track  is  seen  around  that  house,  and  sometimes  it  is 
tracked  up  into  the  chambers,  so  freshly  that  you  see 
he  must  have  passed  a  short  time  before ;  and  he  grows 
wiser  and  wiser,  and  lonelier  and  lonelier,  from  age  to 
age.  And  this  is  the  legend  of  the  bloody  footstep, 
which  I  myself  have  seen  at  the  Hall  door.  As  to  the 
flower,  the  plant  of  it  continued  for  several  years  to  grow 
out  of  the  grave ;  and  after  a  while,  perhaps  a  century 

ago,  it  was  transplanted  into  the  garden  of Hall,  and 

preserved  with  great  care,  and  is  so  still.  And  as  the 
family  attribute  a  kind  of  sacredness,  or  curseduess,  to 
the  flower,  they  can  hardly  be  prevailed  upon  to  give 
any  of  the  seeds,  or  allow  it  to  be  propagated  elsewhere, 
though  the  king  should  send  to  ask  it.  It  is  said,  too, 
that  there  is  still  in  the  family  the  old  lord's  recipe  for 
immortality,  and  that  several  of  his  collateral  descend- 
ants have  tried  to  concoct  it,  and  instil  the  flower  into 
it,  and  so  give  indefinite  life  ;  but  unsuccessfully,  because 
the  seeds  of  the  flower  must  be  planted  in  a  fresh  grave 
of  bloody  death,  in  order  to  make  it  effectual." 

So  ended  Sybil's  legend;  in  which  Septimius  was 
struck  by  a  certain  analogy  to  Aunt  Keziah's  Indian 
legend,  —  both  referring  to  a  flower  growing  out  of  a 
grave ;  and  also  he  did  not  fail  to  be  impressed  with  the 
wild  coincidence  of  this  disappearance  of  an  ancestor  of 
the  family  long  ago,  and  the  appearance,  at  about  the 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  119 

same  epoch,  of  the  first  known  ancestor  of  his  own  fam- 
ily, the  man  with  wizard's  attributes,  with  the  bloody  foot- 
step, and  whose  sudden  disappearance  became  a  myth, 
under  the  idea  that  the  Devil  carried  him  away.  Yet, 
on  the  whole,  this  wild  tradition,  doubtless  becoming 
wilder  in  Sybil's  wayward  and  morbid  fancy,  had  the 
effect  to  give  him  a  sense  of  the  fantasticalness  of  his 
present  pursuit,  and  that  in  adopting  it,  he  had  strayed 
into  a  region  long  abandoned  to  superstition,  and  where 
the  shadows  of  forgotten  dreams  go  when  men  are  done 
with  them  ;  where  past  worships  are ;  where  great  Pan 
went  when  he  died  to  the  outer  world;  a  limbo  into 
which  living  men  sometimes  stray  when  they  think  them- 
selves sensiblest  and  wisest,  and  whence  they  do  not  often 
find  their  way  back  into  the  real  world.  Visions  of 
wealth,  visions  of  fame,  visions  of  philanthropy,  —  all 
visions  find  room  here,  and  glide  about  without  jostling. 
When  Septimius  came  to  look  at  the  matter  in  his  pres- 
ent mood,  the  thought  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  per- 
haps got  into  such  a  limbo,  and  that  Sybil's  legend,  which 
looked  so  wild,  might  be  all  of  a  piece  with  his  own 
present  life ;  for  Sybil  herself  seemed  an  illusion,  and 
so,  most  strangely,  did  Aunt  Keziah,  whom  he  had 
known  all  his  life,  with  her  homely  and  quaint  charac- 
teristics ;  the  grim  doctor,  with  his  brandy  and  his  Ger- 
man pipe,  impressed  him  in  the  same  way;  and  these, 
altogether,  made  his  homely  cottage  by  the  wayside  seem 
an  unsubstantial  edifice,  such  as  castles  in  the  air  are 
built  of,  and  the  ground  he  trod  on  unreal ;  and  that 
grave,  which  he  knew  to  contain  the  decay  of  a  beautiful 
young  man,  but  a  fictitious  swell  formed  by  the  fantasy 


120  SEPT1MIUS    FELTOX. 

of  his  eyes.  All  unreal ;  all  illusion !  Was  Rose  Gar- 
field  a  deception  too,  with  her  daily  beauty,  and  daily 
cheerfulness,  and  daily,  worth  ?  In  short,  it  was  such 
a  moment  as  I  suppose  all  men  feel  (at  least,  I  can  an- 
swer for  one),  when  the  real  scene  and  picture  of  life 
swims,  jars,  shakes,  seems  about  to  be  broken  up  and 
dispersed,  like  the  picture  in  a  smooth  pond,  when  we 
disturb  its  tranquil  mirror  by  throwing  in  a  stone ;  and 
though  the  scene  soon  settles  itself,  and  looks  as  real  as 
before,  a  haunting  doubt  keeps  close  at  hand,  as  long  as 
we  live,  asking,  "  Is  it  stable  ?  Am  I  sure  of  it  ?  Am 
I  certainly  not  dreaming  ?  See ;  it  trembles  again,  ready 
to  dissolve." 

Applying  himself  with  earnest  diligence  to  his  attempt 
to  decipher  and  interpret  the  mysterious  manuscript, 
working  with  his  whole  mind  and  strength,  Septimius 
did  not  fail  of  some  flattering  degree  of  success. 

A  good  deal  of  the  manuscript,  as  has  been  said,  was 
in  an  ancient  English  script,  although  so  uncouth  and 
shapeless  were  the  characters,  that  it  was  not  easy  to 
resolve  them  into  letters,  or  to  believe  that  they  were 
anything  but  arbitrary  and  dismal  blots  and  scrawls  upou 
the  yellow  paper;  without  meaning,  vague,  like  the  misty 
and  undefined  germs  of  thought  as  they  exist  in  our 
minds  before  clothing  themselves  in  words.  These,  how- 
ever, as  he  concentrated  his  mind  upon  them,  took  dis- 
tiucter  shape,  like  cloudy  stars  at  the  power  of  the  tele- 
scope, and  became  sometimes  English,  sometimes  Latin, 
strangely  patched  together,  as  if,  so  accustomed  was  the 
writer  to  use  that  language  in  which  all  the  science  of 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  121 

that  age  was  usually  embodied,  that  he  really  mixed  it 
unconsciously  with  the  vernacular,  or  used  both  indis- 
criminately. There  was  some  Greek,  too,  but  not  much. 
Then  frequently  came  in  the  cipher,  to  the  study  of  which 
Septimius  had  applied  himself  for  some  time  back,  with 
the  aid  of  the  books  borrowed  from  the  college  library, 
and  not  without  success.  Indeed,  it  appeared  to  him, 
on  close  observation,  that  it  had  not  been  the  intention 
of  the  writer  really  to  conceal  what  he  had  written  from 
any  earnest  student,  but  rather  to  lock  it  up  for  safety 
in  a  sort  of  coffer,  of  which  diligence  and  insight  should 
be  the  key,  and  the  keen  intelligence  with  which  the 
meaning  was  sought  should  be  the  test  of  the  seeker's 
being  entitled  to  possess  the  secret  treasure. 

Amid  a  great  deal  of  misty  stuff,  he  found  the  docu- 
ment to  consist  chiefly,  contrary  to  his  supposition  be- 
forehand, of  certain  rules  of  life;  he  would  have  taken 
it,  on  a  casual  inspection,  for  an  essay  of  counsel,  ad- 
dressed by  some  great  and  sagacious  man  to  a  youth  in 
whom  he  felt  an  interest,  —  so  secure  and  good  a  doc- 
trine of  life  was  propounded,  such  excellent  maxims 
there  were,  such  wisdom  in  all  matters  that  came  within 
the  writer's  purview.  It  was  as  much  like  a  digested 
synopsis  of  some  old  philosopher's  wise  rules  of  conduct, 
as  anything  else.  But  on  closer  inspection,  Septimius, 
in  his  unsophisticated  consideration  of  this  matter,  was 
not  so  well  satisfied.  True,  everything  that  was  said 
seemed  not  discordant  with  the  rules  of  social  morality ; 
not  unwise  :  it  was  shrewd,  sagacious ;  it  did  not  appear 
to  infringe  upon  the  rights  of  mankind ;  but  there  was 
something  left  out,  something  unsatisfactory,  —  what  was 
6 


122  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

it  ?    There  was  certainly  a  cold  spell  in  the  document  -, 
a  magic,  not  of  fire,  but  of  ice  ;  and  Scptimius  the  more 
exemplified  its  power,   in  that  he  soon  began   to  be 
insensible  of  it.      It  affected    Mm   as  if  it  had  been 
written  by  some  greatly  wise  and  worldly-experienced 
man,  like  the  writer  of  Ecclesiastes ;  for  it  was  full  of 
truth.     It  was  a  truth  that  does  not  make  men  better, 
though  perhaps  calmer ;  and  beneath  which  the  buds  of 
happiness  curl  up  like  tender  leaves  in  a  frost.     What 
was  the  matter  with  this  document,  that  the  young  man's 
youth  perished  out  of  him  as  he  read  ?    What  icy  hand 
had  written  it,  so  that  the  heart  was  chilled  out  of  the 
reader  ?    Not  that  Septimius  was  sensible  of  this  char- 
acter ;  at  least,  not  long,  —  for  as  he  read,  there  grew 
upon  him  a  mood  of  calm  satisfaction,  such  as  he  had 
never  felt  before.     His  mind  seemed  to  grow  clearer; 
his  perceptions  most  acute ;  his  sense  of  the  reality  of 
things  grew  to  be  such,  that  he  felt  as  if  he  could  touch 
and  handle  all  his  thoughts,  feel  round  about  all  their 
outline  and  circumference,  and  know  them  with  a  cer- 
tainty, as  if  they  were  material  things.     Not  that  all 
this  was  in  the  document  itself;  but  by  studying  it  so 
earnestly,  and,  as  it  were,  creating  its  meaning  anew  for 
himself,  out  of  such  illegible  materials,  he  caught  the 
temper  of  the  old  writer's  mind,  after  so  many  ages  as 
that  tract  had  lain  in  the  mouldy  and  musty  manuscript. 
He  was  magnetized  with  him  ;  a  powerful  intellect  acted 
powerfully  upon  him ;  perhaps,  even,  there  was  a  sort  of 
spell  and  mystic  influence  imbued  into  the  paper,  and 
mingled  with  the  yellow  ink,  that  steamed  forth  by  the 
effort  of  this  young  man's  earnest  rubbing,  as  it  were, 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  123 

and  by  the  action  of  his  miud,  applied  to  it  as  intently 
as  lie  possibly  could ;  and  even  bis  handling  the  paper, 
his  bending  over  it,  and  breathing  upon  it,  had  its 
effect. 

It  is  not  in  our  power,  nor  in  our  wish,  to  produce  the 
original  form,  nor  yet  the  spirit,  of  a  production  which 
is  better  lost  to  the  world :  because  it  was  the  expres- 
sion of  a  human  intellect  originally  greatly  gifted  and 
capable  of  high  things,  but  gone  utterly  astray,  partly  by 
its  own  subtlety,  partly  by  yielding  to  the  temptations 
of  the  lower  part  of  its  nature,  by  yielding  the  spiritual 
to  a  keen  sagacity  of  lower  things,  until  it  was  quite 
fallen  ;  and  yet  fallen  in  such  a  way,  that  it  seemed  not 
only  to  itself,  but  to  mankind,  not  fallen  at  all,  but 
wise  and  good,  and  fulfilling  all  the  ends  of  intellect  hi 
such  a  life  as  ours,  and  proving,  moreover,  that  earthly 
life  was  good,  and  all  that  the  development  of  our  na- 
ture demanded.  All  this  is  better  forgotten ;  better 
burnt;  better  never  thought  over  again;  and  all  the 
more,  because  its  aspect  was  so  wise,  and  even  praise- 
worthy. But  what  we  must  preserve  of  it  were  certain 
rules  of  life  and  moral  diet,  not  exactly  expressed  in 
the  document,  but  which,  as  it  were,  on  its  being  duly 
received  into  Septimius's  mind,  were  precipitated  from 
the  rich  solution,  and  crystallized  into  diamonds,  and 
which  he  found  to  be  the  moral  dietetics,  so  to  speak,  by 
observing  which  he  was  to  achieve  the  end  of  earthly 
immortality,  whose  physical  nostrum  was  given  in  the 
recipe  which,  with  the  help  of  Doctor  Portsoaken  and 
his  Aunt  Keziah,  he  had  already  pretty  satisfactorily 
made  out. 


124-  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

"  Keep  thy  heart  at  seventy  throbs  in  a  minute ;  all 
more  than  that  wears  away  life  too  quickly.  If  thy 
respiration  be  too  quick,  think  with  thyself  that  thou 
hast  sinned  against  natural  order  and  moderation. 

"  Drink  not  wine  nor  strong  drink ;  and  observe  that 
this  rule  is  worthiest  in  its  symbolic  meaning.  . 

"Bask  daily  in  the  sunshine,  and  let  it  rest  on  thy 
heart. 

"Run  not;  leap  not;  walk  at  a  steady  pace,  and 
count  thy  paces  per  day. 

"If  thou  feelest,  at  any  time,  a  throb  of  the  heart, 
pause  on  the  instant,  and  analyze  it ;  fix.  thy  mental  eye 
steadfastly  upon  it,  and  inquire  why  such  commotion  is. 

"  Hate  not  any  man  nor  woman ;  be  not  angry,  unless 
at  any  time  thy  blood  seem  a  little  cold  and  torpid ;  cut 
out  all  rankling  feelings,  they  are  poisonous  to  thee.  If, 
in  thy  waking  moments,  or  in  thy  dreams,  thou  hast 
thoughts  of  strife  or  unpleasantness  with  any  man,  strive 
quietly  with  thyself  to  forget  him. 

"  Have  no  friendships  with  an  imperfect  man,  with  a 
man  in  bad  health,  of  violent  passions,  of  any  character- 
istic that  evidently  disturbs  his  own  life,  and  so  may 
have  disturbing  influence  on  thine.  Shake  not  any  man 
by  the  hand,  because  thereby,  if  there  be  any  evil  in  the 
man,  it  is  likely  to  be  communicated  to  thee. 

"  Kiss  no  woman  if  her  lips  be  red ;  look  not  upon  her 
if  she  be  very  fair.  Touch  not  her  hand  if  thy  finger- 
tips be  found  to  thrill  with  hers  ever  so  little.  On  the 
whole,  shun  woman,  for  she  is  apt  to  be  a  disturbing 
influence.  If  thou  love  her,  all  is  over,  and  thy  whole 
past  and  remaining  labor  and  pains  will  be  in  vaiu. 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  125 

"Do  some  decent  degree  of  good  and  kindness  in 
thy  daily  life,  for  the  result  is  a  slight  pleasurable  sense 
that  will  seem  to  warm  and  delectate  thee  with  felici- 
tous self-laudiugs ;  and  all  that  brings  thy  thoughts 
to  thyself  tends  to  invigorate  that  central  principle  by 
the  growth  of  which  thou  art  to  give  thyself  indefinite 
life. 

"  Do  not  any  act  manifestly  evil ;  it  may  grow  upon 
thee,  and  corrode  thee  in  after-years.  Do  not  any  fool- 
ish good  act;  it  may  change  thy  wise  habits. 

"Eat  no  spiced  meats.  Young  chickens,  new-fallen 
lambs,  fruits,  bread  four  days  old,  milk,  freshest  butter, 
will  make  thy  fleshy  tabernacle  youthful. 

"  From  sick  people,  maimed  wretches,  afflicted  people, 
—  all  of  whom  show  themselves  at  variance  with  things 
as  they  should  be, — from  people  beyond  their  wits,  from 
people  in  a  melancholic  mood,  from  people  in  extrava- 
gant joy,  from  teething  children,  from  dead  corpses,  turn 
away  thine  eyes  and  depart  elsewhere. 

"If  beggars  haunt  thee,  let  thy  servants  drive  them 
away,  thou  withdrawing  out  of  ear-shot. 

"  Crying  and  sickly  children,  and  teething  children,  as 
aforesaid,  carefully  avoid.  Drink  the  breath  of  whole- 
some infants  as  often  as  thou  conveniently  canst, — 
it  is  good  for  thy  purpose;  also  the  breath  of  buxom 
maids,  if  thou  mayest  without  undue  disturbance  of  the 
flesh,  drink  it  as  a  morning-draught,  as  medicine ;  also 
the  breath  of  cows  as  they  return  from  rich  pasture  at 
eventide. 

"  If  thou  seest  human  poverty,  or  suffering,  and  it 
trouble  thee,  strive  moderately  to  relieve  it,  seeing  that 


H6  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

thus  thy  mood  will  be  changed  to  a  pleasaut  self-lauda- 
tion. 

"  Practise  thyself  in  a  certain  continual  smile,  for  its 
tendency  will  be  to  compose  thy  frame  of  being,  and  keep 
thee  from  too  much  wear. 

"  Search  not  to  see  if  thou  hast  a  gray  hair ;  scruti- 
nize not  thy  forehead  to  find  a  wrinkle ;  nor  the  corners 
of  thy  eyes  to  discover  if  they  be  corrugated.  Such 
things,  being  gazed  at,  daily  take  heart  and  grow. 

"Desire  nothing  too  fervently,  not  even  life J  yet 
keep  thy  hold  upon  it  mightily,  quietly,  unshakably,  for 
as  long  as  thou  really  art  resolved  to  live,  Death,  with 
all  his  force,  shall  have  no  power  against  thee. 

"  Walk  not  beneath  tottering  ruins,  nor  houses  being 
put  up,  nor  climb  to  the  top  of  a  mast,  nor  approach  the 
edge  of  a  precipice,  nor  stand  in  the  way  of  the  lightning, 
nor  cross  a  swollen  river,  nor  voyage  at  sea,  nor  ride  a 
skittish  horse,  nor  be  shot  at  by  an  arrow,  nor  confront 
a  sword,  nor  put  thyself  in  the  way  of  violent  death ;  for 
this  is  hateful,  and  breaketh  through  all  wise  rules. 

"  Say  thy  prayers  at  bedtime,  if  thou  deemest  it  will 
give  thee  quieter  sleep ;  yet  let  it  not  trouble  thee  if 
thou  forgettest  them. 

"  Change  thy  shirt  daily ;  thereby  thou  easiest  off 
yesterday's  decay,  and  imbibest  the  freshness  of  the 
morning's  life,  which  enjoy  with  smelling  to  roses,  and 
other  healthy  and  fragrant  flowers,  and  live  the  longer 
for  it.  Roses  are  made  to  that  end. 

"  Read  not  great  poets ;  they  stir  up  thy  heart ;  and 
the  human  heart  is  a  soil  which,  if  deeply  stirred,  is  apt 
to  give  out  noxious  vapors." 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  127 

Such  were  some  of  the  precepts  which  Septimius  gath- 
ered and  reduced  to  definite  form  out  of  this  wonderful 
document ;  and  he  appreciated  their  wisdom,  and  saw 
clearly  that  they  must  be  absolutely  essential  to  the 
success  of  the  medicine  with  which  they  were  connected. 
In  themselves,  almost,  they  seemed  capable  of  prolong, 
ing  life  to  an  indefinite  period,  so  wisely  were  they  con- 
ceived, so  well  did  they  apply  to  the  causes  which  almost 
invariably  wear  away  this  poor  short  life  of  men,  years 
and  years  before  even  the  shattered  constitutions  that 
they  received  from  their  forefathers  need  compel  them  to 
die.  He  deemed  himself  well  rewarded  for  all  his  labor 
and  pains,  should  nothing  else  follow  but  his  reception 
and  proper  appreciation  of  these  wise  rules;  but  con- 
tinually, as  he  read  the  manuscript,  more  truths,  and,  for 
aught  I  know,  profouuder  and  more  practical  ones,  devel- 
oped themselves ;  and,  indeed,  small  as  the  manuscript 
looked,  Septimius  thought  that  he  should  find  a  volume 
as  big  as  the  most  ponderous  folio  in  the  college  library 
too  small  to  contain  its  wisdom.  It  seemed  to  drip  and 
distil  with  precious  fragrant  drops,  whenever  he  took  it 
out  of  his  desk ;  it  diffused  wisdom  like  those  vials  of 
perfume  which,  small  as  they  look,  keep  diffusing  an 
airy  wealth  of  fragrance  for  years  and  years  together, 
scattering  their  virtue  in  incalculable  volumes  of  invisi- 
ble vapor,  and  yet  are  none  the  less  in  bulk  for  all  they 
give ;  whenever  he  turned  over  the  yellow  leaves,  bits 
of  gold,  diamonds  of  good  size,  precious  pearls,  seemed 
to  drop  out  from  between  them. 

And  now  ensued  a  surprise  which,  though  of  a  happy 
kind,  was  almost  too  much  for  him  to  bear ;  for  it  made 


128  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

bis  heart  beat  considerably  faster  tban  tbe  wise  rules  of 
bis  manuscript  prescribed.  Going  up  on  his  hill-top,  as 
summer  wore  away  (he  had  not  been  there  for  some 
time),  and  walking  by  the  little  flowery  hillock,  as  so 
many  a  hundred  times  before,  what  should  he  see  there 
but  a  new  flower,  that  during  the  time  he  had  been 
poring  over  the  manuscript  so  sedulously  had  developed 
itself,  blossomed,  put  forth  its  petals,  bloomed  into  full 
perfection,  and  now,  with  the  dew  of  the  morning  upon 
it,  was  waiting  to  offer  itself  to  Septimius  ?  He  trem- 
bled as  he  looked  at  it,  it  was  too  much  almost  to  bear  ; 
—  it  was  so  very  beautiful,  so  very  stately,  so  very  rich, 
so  very  mysterious  and  wonderful.  It  was  like  a  per- 
son, like  a  life  !  Whence  did  it  come  ?  He  stood  apart 
from  it,  gazing  in  wonder ;  tremulously  taking  in  its 
aspect,  and  thinking  of  the  legends  he  had  heard  from 
Aunt  Keziah  and  from  Sybil  Dacy ;  and  how  that  this 
flower,  like  the  one  that  their  wild  traditions  told  of, 
had  grown  out  of  a  grave,  —  out  of  a  grave  in  which  he 
had  laid  one  slain  by  himself. 

The  flower  was  of  the  richest  crimson,  illuminated  with 
a  golden  centre  of  a  perfect  and  stately  beauty.  From 
the  best  descriptions  that  I  have  been  able  to  gain  of  it, 
it  wfcs  more  like  a  dahlia  than  any  other  flower  with 
which  I  have  acquaintance ;  yet  it  does  not  satisfy  me  to 
believe  it  really  of  that  species,  for  the  dahlia  is  not  a 
flower  of  any  deep  characteristics,  either  lively  or  malig- 
nant, and  this  flower,  which  Septimius  found  so  strangely, 
seems  to  have  had  one  or  the  other.  If  I  have  rightly 
understood,  it  had  a  fragrance  which  the  dahlia  lacks ; 
and  there  was  something  hidden  in  its  centre,  a  mystery, 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  1*29 

even  in  its  fullest  bloom,  not  developing  itself  so  openly 
as  the  heartless,  yet  not  dishonest,  dahlia.  I  remember 
in  England  to  have  seen  a  flower  at  Eaton  Hall,  in  Chesh- 
ire, in  those  magnificent  gardens,  which  may  have  been 
like  this,  but  my  remembrance  of  it  is  not  sufficiently  dis- 
tinct to  enable  me  to  describe  it  better  than  by  saying 
that  it  was  crimson,  with  a  gleam  of  gold  in  its  centre, 
which  yet  was  partly  hidden.  It  had  many  petals  of 
great  richness. 

Septimius,  bending  eagerly  over  the  plant,  saw  that 
this  was  not  to  be  the  only  flower  that  it  would  pro- 
duce that  season;  on  the  contrary,  there  was  to  be  a 
great  abundance  of  them,  a  luxuriant  harvest ;  as  if  the 
crimson  offspring  of  this  one  plant  would  cover  the  whole 
hillock,  —  as  if  the  dead  youth  beneath  had  burst  into  a 
resurrection  of  many  crimson  flowers  !  And  in  its  veiled 
heart,  moreover,  there  was  a  mystery  like  death,  although 
it  seemed  to  cover  something  bright  and  golden. 

Day  after  day  the  strange  crimson  flower  bloomed 
more  and  more  abundantly,  until  it  seemed  almost  to 
cover  the  little  hillock,  which  became  a  mere  bed  of  it, 
apparently  turning  all  its  capacity  of  production  to  this 
flower ;  for  the  other  plants,  Septimius  thought,  seemed 
to  shrink  away,  and  give  place  to  it,  as  if  they  were  un- 
worthy to  compare  with  the  richness,  glory,  and  worth 
of  this  their  queen.  The  fervent  summer  burned  into  it, 
the  dew  and  the  rain  ministered  to  it ;  the  soil  was  rich, 
for  it  was  a  human  heart  contributing  its  juices,  —  a  heart 
in  its  fiery  youth  sodden  in  its  own  blood,  so  that  passion, 
unsatisfied  loves  and  longings,  ambition  that  never  won 
its  object,  tender  dreams  and  throbs,  angers,  lusts,  hates, 
6*  i 


130  SEPTIMIUS   FELTON. 

all  concentrated  by  life,  came  sprouting  in  it,  and  its 
mysterious  being,  and  streaks  and  shadows  had  some 
meaning  in  each  of  them. 

The  two  girls,  when  they  next  ascended  the  hill,  saw 
the  strange  flower,  and  Rose  admired  it,  and  wondered 
at  it,  but  stood  at  a  distance,  without  showing  an  attrac- 
tion towards  it,  rather  an  undefined  aversion,  as  if  she 
thought  it  might  be  a  poison  flower;  at  any  rate  she 
would  not  be  inclined  to  wear  it  in  her  bosom.  Sybil 
Dacy  examined  it  closely,  touched  its  leaves,  smelt  it, 
looked  at  it  with  a  botanist's  eye,  and  at  last  remarked 
to  Rose,  "  Yes,  it  grows  well  in  this  new  soil ;  methiuks 
it  looks  like  a  new  human  life." 

"  What  is  the  strange  flower  ?  "  asked  Rose. 

" The  Sanguined  sanguinissima"  said  Sybil. 

It  so.  happened  about  this  time  that  poor  Aunt  Keziah, 
in  spite  of  her  constant  use  of  that  bitter  mixture  of  hers, 
was  in  a  very  bad  state  of  health.  She  looked  all  of  an 
unpleasant  yellow,  with  bloodshot  eyes  ;  she  complained 
terribly  of  her  inwards.  She  had  an  ugly  rheumatic 
hitch  in  her  motion  from  place  to  place,  and  was  heard  to 
mutter  many  wishes  that  she  had  a  broomstick  to  fly 
about  upon,  and  she  used  to  bind  up  her  head  with  a 
dishclout,  or  what  looked  to  be  such,  and  would  sit  by 
the  kitchen  fire  even  in  the  warm  days,  bent  over  it, 
crouching  as  if  she  wanted  to  take  the  whole  fire  into  her 
poor  cold  heart  or  gizzard,  —  groaning  regularly  with 
each  breath  a  spiteful  and  resentful  groan,  as  if  she 
fought  womanfully  with  her  infirmities  ;  and  she  contin- 
ually smoked  her  pipe,  and  sent  out  the  breath  of  her 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  131 

complaint  visibly  in  that  evil  odor;  and  sometimes  she 
murmured  a  little  prayer,  but  somehow  or  other  the  evil 
and  bitterness,  acridity,  pepperiuess,  of  her  natural  dispo- 
sition overcame  the  acquired  grace  which  compelled  her 
to  pray,  insomuch  that,  after  all,  you  would  have  thought 
the  poor  old  woman  was  cursing  with  all  her  rheu- 
matic might.  All  the  time  an  old,  broken-nosed,  brown 
earthen  jug,  covered  with  the  lid  of  a  black  teapot,  stood 
on  the  edge  of  the  embers,  steaming  forever,  and  some- 
times bubbling  a  little,  and  giving  a  great  puff,  as  if  it 
were  sighing  and  groaning  in  sympathy  with  poor  Aunt 
Keziah,  and  when  it  sighed  there  came  a  great  steam 
of  herby  fragrance,  not  particularly  pleasant,  into  the 
kitchen.  And  ever  and  anon,  —  half  a  dozen  times  it 
might  be,  — of  an  afternoon,  Aunt  Keziah  took  a  certain 
bottle  from  a  private  receptacle  of  hers,  and  also  a  tea- 
cup, and  likewise  a  little,  old-fashioned  silver  teaspoon, 
with  which  she  measured  three  teaspooufuls  of  some 
spirituous  liquor  into  the  teacup,  half  filled  the  cup  with 
the  hot  decoction,  drank  it  off,  gave  a  grunt  of  content, 
and  for  the  space  of  half  an  hour  appeared  to  find  life 
tolerable. 

But  one  day  poor  Aunt  Keziah  found  herself  unable, 
partly  from  rheumatism,  partly  from  other  sickness  or 
weakness,  and  partly  from  dolorous  ill-spirits,  to  keep 
about  any  longer,  so  she  betook  herself  to  her  bed ;  and 
betimes  in  the  forenoon  Septimius  heard  a  tremendous 
knocking  on  the  floor  of  her  bedchamber,  which  happened 
to  be  the  room  above  his  own.  He  was  the  only  person 
in  or  about  the  house  ;  so,  with  great  reluctance,  he  left 
his  studies,  which  were  upon  the  recipe,  in  respect  to 


132  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

which  he  was  trying  to  make  out  the  mode  of  concoction, 
which  was  told  in  such  a  mysterious  way  that  he  could 
not  well  tell  either  the  quantity  of  the  ingredients,  the 
mode  of  trituration,  nor  in  what  way  their  virtue  was  to 
be  extracted  and  combined. 

Running  hastily  up  stairs,  he  found  Aunt  Keziah  lying 
in  bed,  and  groaning  with  great  spite  and  bitterness ;  so 
that,  indeed,  it  seemed  not  im providential  that  such  an 
inimical  state  of  mind  towards  the  human  race  was 
accompanied  with  an  almost  inability  of  motion,  else  it 
would  not  be  safe  to  be  within  a  considerable  distance 
of  her. 

"  Seppy,  you  good-for-nothing,  are  you  going  to  see  me 
lying  here,  dying,  without  trying  to  do  anything  for  me  ?  " 

"  Dying,  Auut  Keziah  ?  "  repeated  the  young  man.  "  I 
hope  not !  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  Shall  I  go  for 
Rose  ?  or  call  a  neighbor  in  ?  or  the  doctor  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  you  fool !  "  said  the  afflicted  person.  "  You 
can  do  all  that  anybody  can  for  me ;  and  that  is  to  put 
my  mixture  on  the  kitchen  fire  till  it  steams,  and  is  just 
ready  to  bubble  ;  then  measure  three  teaspooufuls  —  or 
it  may  be  four,  as  I  am  very  bad  —  of  spirit  into  a  tea- 
cup, fill  it  half  full,  —  or  it  may  be  quite  full,  for  I  am 
very  bad,  as  I  said  afore ;  six  teaspoonfuls  of  spirit  into 
a  cup  of  mixture,  and  let  me  have  it  as  soon  as  may  be  j 
and  don't  break  the  cup,  nor  spill  the  precious  mixture, 
for  goodness  knows  when  I  can  go  into  the  woods  to 
gather  any  more.  Ah  me  !  ah  me  !  it 's  a  wicked,  mis- 
erable world,  and  I  am  the  most  miserable  creature  in 
it.  Be  quick,  you  good-for-nothing,  and  do  as  I  say  !  " 

Septimius  hastened  down ;  but  as  he  went,  a  thought 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  133 

I 

came  into  his  head,  which  it  occurred  to  him  might  result 
in  great  benefit  to  Auut  Keziah,  as  well  as  to  the  great 
cause  of  science  aud  human  good,  and  to  the  promotion 
of  his  own  pui-pose,  in  the  first  place.  A  day  or  two 
ago,  he  had  gathered  several  of  the  beautiful  flowers, 
and  laid  them  in  the  fervid  sun  to  dry ;  and  they  now 
seemed  to  be  in  about  the  state  in  which  the  old  woman 
was  accustomed  to  use  her  herbs,  so  far  as  Scptimius  had 
observed.  Now,  if  these  flowers  were  really,  as  there 
was  so  much  reason  for  supposing,  the  one  ingredient 
that  had  for  hundreds  of  years  been  missing  out  of  Aunt 
Keziah's  nostrum,  —  if  it  was  this  which  that  strange 
Indian  sagamore  had  mingled  with  his  drink  with  such 
beneficial  effect,  —  why  should  not  Septimius  now  re- 
store it,  and  if  it  would  not  make  his  beloved  aunt  young 
again,  at  least  assuage  the  violent  symptoms,  aud  perhaps 
prolong  her  valuable  life  some  years,  for  the  solace  and 
delight  of  her  numerous  friends  ?  Septimius,  like  other 
people  of  investigating  aud  active  minds,  had  a  great  ten- 
dency to  experiment,  aud  so  good  an  opportunity  as  the 
present,  where  (perhaps  he  thought)  there  was  so  little 
to  be  risked  at  worst,  and  so  much  to  be  gained,  was  not 
to  be  neglected ;  so,  without  more  ado,  he  stirred  three 
of  the  crimson  flowers  into  the  earthen  jug,  set  it  on  the 
edge  of  the  fire,  stirred  it  well,  and  when  it  steamed, 
threw  up  little  scarlet  bubbles,  and  was  about  to  boil,  he 
measured  out  the  spirits,  as  Aunt  Keziah  had  bidden 
him,  and  then  filled  the  teacup. 

"  Ah,  this  will  do  her  good ;  little  does  she  think,  poor 
old  thing,  what  a  rare  and  costly  medicine  is  about  to  be 
given  her.  This  will  set  her  on  her  feet  again." 


13  t  SEPTIM1US    FELTON. 

The  hue  was  somewhat  changed,  he  thought,  from 
what  he  had  observed  of  Aunt  Keziah's  customary  decoc- 
tion ;  instead  of  a  turbid  yellow,  the  crimson  petals  of 
the  flower  had  tinged  it,  and  made  it  almost  red  ;  not  a 
brilliant  red,  however,  nor  the  least  inviting  in  appear- 
ance. Septimius  smelt  it,  and  thought  he  could  distin- 
guish a  little  of  the  rich  odor  of  the  flower,  but  was  not 
sure.  He  considered  whether  to  taste  it ;  but  the  horri- 
ble flavor  of  Aunt  Keziah's  decoction  recurred  strongly 
to  his  remembrance,  and  he  concluded,  that  were  he  evi- 
dently at  the  point  of  death,  he  might  possibly  be  bold 
enough  to  taste  it  again  ;  but  that  nothing  short  of  the 
hope  of  a  century's  existence,  at  least,  would  repay 
another  taste  of  that'  fierce  and  nauseous  bitterness. 
Aunt  Keziah  loved  it ;  and  as  she  brewed,  so  let  her 
drink. 

He  went  up  stairs,  careful  not  to  spill  a  drop  of  the 
brimming  cup,  and  approached  the  old  woman's  bedside, 
where  she  lay,  groaning  as  before,  and  breaking  out  into 
a  spiteful  croak  the  moment  he  was  within  ear-shot. 

"You  don't  care  whether  I  live  or  die,"  said  she. 
"  You  've  been  waiting  in  hopes  I  shall  die,  and  so  save 
yourself  further  trouble." 

"  By  no  means,  Aunt  Keziah,"  said  Septimius.  "  Here 
is  the  medicine,  -which  I  have  warmed,  and  measured  out, 
and  mingled,  as  well  as  I  knew  how ;  and  I  think  it  will 
do  you  a  great  deal  of  good." 

"  Won't  you  taste  it,  Seppy,  my  dear  ?  "  said  Aunt 
K«"ziah,  mollified  by  the  praise  of  her  beloved  mixture. 
"Drink  first,  dear,  so  that  my  sick  old  lips  need  not 
iaint  it.  You  look  pale,  Septimius ;  it  will  do  you  good." 


SEPTIM1US    FELTON.  135 

"  No,  Aunt  Keziah,  I  do  not  need  it ;  and  it  were  a 
pity  to  waste  your  precious  drink,"  said  he. 

"  It  does  not  look  quite  the  right  color,"  said  Aunt 
Keziah,  as  she  took  the  cup  in  her  hand.  "  You  must 
have  dropped  some  soot  into  it."  Then  as  she  raised  it 
to  her  lips,  "  It  does  not  smell  quite  right.  But,  woe 's 
me  !  how  can  I  expect  anybody  but  myself  to  make  this 
precious  drink  as  it  should  be  ?  " 

She  drank  it  off  at  two  gulps ;  for  she  appeared  to 
hurry  it  off  faster  than  usual,  as  if  not  tempted  by  the 
exquisiteness  of  its  flavor  to  dwell  upon  it  so  long. 

"  You  have  not  made  it  just  right,  Seppy,"  said  she  in 
a  milder  tone  than  before,  for  she  seemed  to  feel  the  cus- 
tomary soothing  influence  of  the  draught,  "  but  you  '11 
do  better  the  next  time.  It  had  a  queer  taste,  me- 
thought ;  or  is  it  that  my  mouth  is  getting  out  of  taste  ? 
Hard  times  it  will  be  for  poor  Aunt  Kezzy,  if  she 's  to  lose 
her  taste  for  the  medicine  that,  under  Providence,  has 
saved  her  life  for  so  many  years." 

She  gave  back  the  cup  to  Septimius,  after  looking  a 
little  curiously  at  the  dregs. 

"It  looks  like  bloodroot,  don't  it?"  said  she.  "Per- 
haps it 's  my  own  fault  after  all.  I  gathered  a  fresh 
bunch  of  the  yarbs  yesterday  afternoon,  and  put  them  to 
steep,  and  it  may  be  I  was  a  little  blind,  for  it  was  be- 
tween daylight  and  dark,  and  the  moon  shone  on  me 
before  I  had  finished.  I  thought  how  the  witches  used 
to  gather  their  poisonous  stuff  at  such  times,  and  what 
pleasant  uses  they  made  of  it,  —  but  those  are  sinful 
thoughts,  Seppy,  sinful  thoughts !  so  I  '11  say  a  prayer 
and  try  to  go  to  sleep.  I  feel  very  noddy  all  at  once." 


136  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

Septiraius  drew  the  bedclothes  up  about  her  shoulders, 
for  she  complained  of  being  very  chilly,  and,  carefully 
putting  her  stick  within  reach,  went  down  to  his  own 
room,  and  resumed  his  studies,  trying  to  make  out  from 
those  aged  hieroglyphics,  to  which  he  was  now  so  well 
accustomed,  what  was  the  precise  method  of  making  the 
elixir  of  immortality.  Sometimes,  as  men  in  deep  thought 
do,  he  rose  from  his  chair,  and  walked  to  and  fro,  the 
four  or  five  steps  or  so,  that  conveyed  him  from  end  to 
end  of  his  little  room.  At  one  of  these  times  he  chanced 
to  look  in  the  little  looking-glass  that  hung  between  the 
windows,  and  was  startled  at  the  paleness  of  his  face. 
It  was  quite  white,  indeed.  Septimius  was  not  in  the 
least  a  foppish  young  man;  careless  he  was  in  dress, 
though  often  his  apparel  took  an  unsought  picturesque- 
ness  that  set  off  his  slender,  agile  figure,  perhaps  from 
some  quality  of  spontaneous  arrangement  that  he  had 
inherited  from  his  Indian  ancestry.  Yet  many  women 
might  have  found  a  charm  in  that  dark,  thoughtful  face, 
with  its  hidden  fire  and  energy,  although  Septimius  never 
thought  of  its  being  handsome,  and  seldom  looked  at  it. 
Yet  now  he  was  drawn  to  it  by  seeing  how  strangely 
white  it  was,  and,  gazing  at  it,  he  observed  that  since  he 
considered  it  last,  a  very  deep  furrow,  or  corrugation,  or 
fissure,  it  might  almost  be  called,  had  indented  his  brow, 
rising  from  the  commencement  of  his  nose  towards  the 
centre  of  the  forehead.  And  he  knew  it  was  his  brood- 
ing thought,  his  fierce,  hard  determination,  his  intense 
concentrativeness  for  so  many  months,  that  had  been 
digging  that  furrow ;  and  it  must  prove  indeed  a  potent 
specific  of  the  life-water  that  would  smooth  that  away, 


SEPTIM1US    FELTON.  137 

and  restore  him  all  the  youth  and  elasticity  that  he  had 
buried  in  that  profound  grave. 

But  why  was  he  so  pale?  He  could  have  supposed 
himself  startled  by  some  ghastly  thing  that  he  had  just 
seen ;  by  a  corpse  in  the  next  room,  for  instance ;  or 
.else  by  the  foreboding  that  one  would  soon  be  there ;  but 
yet  he  was  conscious  of  no  tremor  in  his  frame,  no  terror 
in  his  heart ;  as  why  should  there  be  any  ?  Feeling  his 
own  pulse,  he  found  the  strong,  regular  beat  that  should 
be  there.  He  was  not  ill,  nor  affrighted ;  not  expectant 
of  any  pain.  Then  why  so  ghastly  pale  ?  And  why, 
moreover,  Septimius,  did  you  listen  so  earnestly  for  any 
sound  in  Aunt  Keziah's  chamber  ?  Why  did  you  creep 
on  tiptoe,  once,  twice,  three  times,  up  to  the  old  woman's 
chamber,  and  put  your  ear  to  the  keyhole,  and  listen 
breathlessly  ?  Well ;  it  must  have  been  that  he  was  sub- 
conscious that  he  was  trying  a  bold  experiment,  and  that 
he  had  taken  this  poor  old  woman  to  be  the  medium  of 
it,  in  the  hope,  of  course,  that  it  would  turn  out  well ; 
yet  with  other  views  than  her  interest  in  the  matter. 
What  was  the  harm  of  that  ?  Medical  men,  no  doubt, 
are  always  doing  so,  and  he  was  a  medical  man  for  the 
time.  Then  why  was  he  so  pale  ? 

He  sat  down  and  fell  into  a  revery,  which  perhaps  was 
partly  suggested  by  that  chief  furrow  which  he  had  seen, 
and  which  we  have  spoken  of,  in  his  brow.  He  consid- 
ered whether  there  was  anything  in  this  pursuit  of  his 
that  used  up  life  particularly  fast;  so  that,  perhaps, 
unless  he  were  successful  soon,  he  should  be  incapable 
of  renewal ;  for,  looking  within  himself,  and  considering 
his  mode  of  being,  he  had  a  singular  fancy  that  his  heart 


138  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

was  gradually  drying  up,  and  that  lie  must  continue  to 
get  some  moisture  for  it,  or  else  it  would  soon  be  like 
a  withered  leaf.  Supposing  his  pursuit  were  vain,  what 
a  waste  he  was  making  of  that  little  treasure  of  golden 
days,  which  was  his  all !  Could  this  be  called  life,  which 
he  was  leading  now  ?  How  unlike  that  of  other  young 
men !  .How  unlike  that  of  Robert  Hagburn,  for  exam- 
ple !  There  had  come  news  yesterday  of  his  having  per- 
formed a  gallant  part  in  the  battle  of  Monmouth,  and 
being  promoted  to  be  a  captain  for  his  brave  conduct. 
Without  thinking  of  long  life,  he  really  lived  in  heroic 
-actions  and  emotions ;  he  got  much  life  in  a  little,  and 
did  not  fear  to  sacrifice  a  lifetime  of  torpid  breaths,  if 
necessary,  to  the  ecstasy  of  a  glorious  death ! 

[It  appears  from  a  written  sketch  by  the  author  of  this 
story,  that  he  changed  his  first  plan  of  making  Septimius 
and  Rose  lovers,  and  she  was  to  be  represented  as  his  half- 
sister,  and  in  the  copy  for  publication  this  alteration 
would  have  been  made.  —  ED.] 

And  then  Robert  loved,  too,  loved  his  sister  Rose,  and 
felt,  doubtless,  an  immortality  in  that  passion.  Why  could 
not  Septimius  love  too  ?  It  was  forbidden  !  Well,  no 
matter;  whom  could  he  have  loved?  Who,  in  all  this 
world,  would  have  been  suited  to  his  secret,  brooding 
heart,  that  he  could  have  let  her  into  its  mysterious 
chambers,  and  walked  with  her  from  one  cavernous 
gloom  to  another,  and  said,  "Here  are  my  treasures. 
I  make  thee  mistress  of  all  these ;  with  all  these  goods  I 
thee  endow."  And  then,  revealing  to  her  his  great  secret 
and  purpose  of  gaining  immortal  life,  have  said  :  "  This 
shall  be  thine,  too.  Thou  shalt  share  with  me.  We 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  189 

will  walk  along  the  endless  path  together,  and  keep  one 
another's  hearts  warm,  and  so  be  content  to  live." 

Ah,  Septimius  !  but  now  you  are  getting  beyond  those 
rules  of  yours,  which,  cold  as  they  are,  have  been 
drawn  out  of  a  subtle  philosophy,  and  might,  were  it 
possible  to  follow  them  out,  suffice  to  do  all  that  you  ask 
of  them ;  but  if  you  break  them,  you  do  it  at  the  peril 
of  your  earthly  immortality.  Each  warmer  and  quicker 
throb  of  the  heart  wears  away  so  much  of  life.  The 
passions,  the  affections,  are  a  wiue  not  to  be  indulged 
in.  Love,  above  all,  being  in  its  essence  an  immortal 
thing,  cannot  be  long  contained  in  an  earthly  body,  but 
would  wear  it  out  with  its  own  secret  "power,  softly 
invigorating  as  it  seems.  You  must  be  cold,  therefore, 
Septimius ;  you  must  not  even  earnestly  and  passionately 
desire  this  immortality  that  seems  so  necessary  to  you. 
Else  the  very  wish  will  prevent  the  possibility  of  its 
fulfilment. 

By  and  by,  to  call  him  out  of  these  rhapsodies,  came 
Rose  home  ;  and  finding  the  kitchen  hearth  cold,  and 
Aunt  Keziah  missing,  and  no  dinner  by  the  fire,  which 
was  smouldering,  —  nothing  but  the  portentous  earthen 
jug,  which  fumed,  and  sent  out  long,  ill-flavored  sighs, 
she  tapped  at  Septimius's  door,  and  asked  him  what  was 
the  matter. 

"Aunt  Keziah  has  had  an  ill  turn,"  said  Septimius, 
"  and  has  gone  to  bed." 

"  Poor  auntie  !  "  said  Rose,  with  her  quick  sympathy. 
"  I  will  this  moment  run  up  and  see  if  she  needs  any- 
thin?." 

"  No,  Rose,"  said  Septimius,  "  she  has  doubtless  gone 


140  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

to  sleep,  and  will  awake  as  well  as  usual.  It  would  dis- 
please her  much  were  you  to  miss  your  afternoon  school; 
so  you  had  better  set  the  table  with  whatever  there  is 
left  of  yesterday's  dinner,  and  leave  ine  to  take  care  of 
auntie." 

"  Well,"  said  Rose,  "  she  loves  you  best ;  but  if  she  be 
really  ill,  I  shall  give  up  my  school  and  nurse  her." 

"  No  doubt,"  said  Septimius,  "  she  will  be  about  the 
house  again  to-morrow." 

So  Rose  ate  her  frugal  dinner  (consisting  chiefly  of 
purslain,  and  some  other  garden  herbs,  which  her  thrifty 
aunt  had  prepared  for  boiling),  and  went  away  as  usual 
to  her  school ;  for  Aunt  Keziali,  as  aforesaid,  had  never 
encouraged  the  tender  ministrations  of  Rose,  whose  or- 
derly, womanly  character,  with  its  well-defined  orb  of 
daily  and  civilized  duties,  had  always  appeared  to  strike 
her  as  tame;  and  she  once  said  to  her,  "You  arejiQ 
squaw,  child,  and  you  '11  never  make  a  witch."  Nor 
would  she  even  so  much  as  let  Rose  put  her  tea  to  steep, 
or  do  anything  whatever  for  herself  personally  ;  though, 
certainly,  she  was  not  backward  in  requiring  of  her  a  due 
share  of  labor  for  the  general  housekeeping. 

Septimius  was  sitting  in  his  room,  as  the  afternoon 
wore  away ;  because,  for  some  reason  or  other,  or  quite 
as  likely,  for  no  reason  at  all,  he  did  not  air  himself  and 
his  thoughts,  as  usual,  on  the  hill;  so  he  was  sitting 
musing,  thinking,  looking  into  his  mysterious  manuscript, 
when  he  heard  Aunt  Keziah  moving  in  the  chamber 
above.  First  she  seemed  to  rattle  a  chair ;  then  she  be- 
gan a  slow,  regular  beat  with  the  stick  which  Septimius 
had  left  by  her  bedside,  and  which  startled  him  strangely, 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  141 

—  so  tbat,  indeed,  his  heart  beat  faster  than  the  fi  ve-and- 
seventy  throbs  to  which  he  was  restricted  by  the  wise 
rules  that  he  had  digested.  So  he  ran  hastily  up  stairs, 
and  behold,  Aunt  Keziah  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  looking 
very  wild,  —  so  wild  that  you  would  have  thought  she 
was  going  to  fly  up  chimney  the  next  minute ;  her  gray 
hair  all  dishevelled,  her  eyes  staring,  her  hands  clutching 
forward,  while  she  gave  a  sort  of  howl,  what  with  pain 
and  agitation. 

"  Seppy  !  Seppy  !  "  said  she,  —  "  Seppy,  my  darling  ! 
are  you  quite  sure  you  remember  how  to  make  that  pre- 
cious drink  ?  " 

"  Quite  well,  Aunt  Keziah,"  said  Septimius,  inwardly 
much  alarmed  by  her  aspect,  but  preserving  a  true  Indian 
composure  of  outward  mien.  "I  wrote  it  down,  and 
could  say  it  by  heart  besides.  Shall  I  make  you  a  fresh 
pot  of  it  ?  for  I  have  thrown  away  the  other." 

"That  was  well,  Seppy,"  said  the  poor  old  woman, 
"  for  there  is  something  wrong  about  it ;  but  I  want  no 
more,  for,  Seppy  dear,  I  am  going  fast  out  of  this  world, 
where  you  and  that  precious  drink  were  my  only  treas- 
ures and  comforts.  I  wanted  to  know  if  you  remem- 
bered the  recipe ;  it  is  all  I  have  to  leave  you,  and  the 
more  you  drink  of  it,  Seppy,  the  better.  Only  see  to 
make  it  right !  " 

"  Dear  auntie,  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?  "  said  Septim- 
ius, in  much  consternation,  but  still  calm.  "  Let  me  run 
for  the  doctor,  —  for  the  neighbors  ?  something  must  be 
done !  " 

The  old  woman  contorted  herself  as  if  there  were  a 
fearful  time  in  her  iusides ;  and  grinned,  and  twisted  the 


l-t;J  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

yellow  ugliness  of  her  face,  and  groaned,  and  howled ; 
and  yet  there  was  a  tough  and  fierce  kind  of  endurance 
with  which  she  fought  with  her  anguish,  and  would  not 
yield  to  it  a  jot,  though  she  allowed  herself  the  relief  of 
shrieking  savagely  at  it,  —  much  more  like  a  defiance 
than  a  cry  for  mercy. 

"  No  doctor !  no  woman  !  "  said  she  ;  "  if  my  drink 
could  not  save  me,  what  would  a  doctor's  foolish  pills 
and  powders  do  ?  And  a  woman!  If  old  Martha  Denton, 
the  witch,  were  alive,  I  would  be  glad  to  see  her.  But 
other  women!  Pah!  Ah!  Ai !  Oh!  Phew!  Ah, 
Seppy,  what  a  mercy  it  would  be  now  if  I  could  set  to 
and  blaspheme  a  bit,  and  shake  my  fist  at  the  sky  !  But 
I  'm  a  Christian  woman,  Seppy,  —  a  Christian  woman." 

"  Shall  I  send  for  the  minister,  Aunt  Keziah  ?  "  asked 
Septimius.  "  He  is  a  good  man,  and  a  wise  one." 

"  No  minister  for  me,  Seppy,"  said  Aunt  Keziah,  howl- 
ing as  if  somebody  were  choking  her.  "He  may  be  a 
good  man  and  a  wise  one,  but  he 's  not  wise  enough  to 
know  the  way  to  my  heart,  and  never  a  man  as  was ! 
Eh,  Seppy,  I  'm  a  Christian  woman,  but  I  'm  not  like  other 
Christian  women ;  and  I  'm  glad  I  'm  going  away  from 
this  stupid  world.  I  've  not  been  a  bad  woman,  and  I 
deserve  credit  for  it,  for  it  would  have  suited  me  a  great 
deal  better  to  be  bad.  0,  what  a  delightful  time  a  witch 
must  have  had,  starting  off  up  chimney  on  her  broom- 
stick at  midnight,  and  looking  down  from  aloft  in  the  sky 
on  the  sleeping  village  far  below,  with  its  steeple  point- 
ing up  at  her,  so  that  she  might  touch  the  golden  weath- 
ercock !  You,  meanwhile,  in  such  an  ecstasy,  and  all 
below  you  the  dull,  innocent,  sober  humankind  ;  the  wife 


SEPTIMIU.'     FELTON.  143 

sleeping  by  her  husband,  or  mother  by  her  child,  squall- 
ing with  wind  in  its  stomach  ;  the  goodman  driving  up  his 
cattle  and  his  plough, — all  so  innocent,  all  so  stupid,  with 
their  dull  days  just  alike,  one  after  another.  And  you 
up  in  the  air,  sweeping  away  to  some  nook  in  the  for- 
est !  Ha !  What 's  that  ?  A  wizard !  Ha !  ha  !  Known 
below  as  a  deacon !  There  is  Goody  Chickeriug !  How 
quietly  she  sent  the  young  people  to  bed  after  prayers ! 
There  i«j  a"  TndiqnjfliPrp  a  nigger ;  they  all  have  equal 
rights  and  privileges  ;it  a  witch-meeting.  Phew  !  the 
wind  blows  cold  up  here !  Why  does  not  the  Black  Man 
have  the  meeting  at  his  own  kitchen  hearth  ?  Ho  !  ho  ! 
0  dear  me !  But  I  'm  a  Christian  woman  and  no  witch  ; 
but  those  must  have  been  gallant  times  !  " 

Doubtless  it  was  a  partial  wandering  of  the  mind  that 
took  the  poor  old  woman  away  on  this  old-witch  flight ; 
and  it  was  very  curious  and  pitiful  to  witness  the  com- 
punction with  which  she  returned  to  herself  and  took 
herself  to  task  for  the  preference  which,  in  her  wild 
nature,  she  could  not  help  giving  to  harum-scarum 
wickedness  over  tame  goodness.  Now  she  tried  to  com- 
pose herself,  and  talk  reasonably  and  godly. 

"Ah,  Septimius,  my  dear  child,  never  give  way  to^v 
temptation,   nor  consent  to  be  a   wizard,  though  the      \ 
Black  Man  persuade  you  ever  so  hard.     I  know  he  will 
try.     He  has  tempted  me,  but  I  never  yielded,  never       / 
gave  him  his  will;  and  never  do  you,  my  boy,  though       / 
you,  with  your  dark   complexion,   and  your  brooding 
brow,  and  your  eye  veiled,  only  when  it  suddenly  looks 
out  with  a  flash  of  fire  in  it,  are  the  sort  of  man  he  seeks 
most,  and  that  afterwards  serves  him.     But  don't  do  it, 


144  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

Septimius.  But  if  you  could  be  an  Indian,  methinks  it 
would  be  better  than  this  tame  life  we  lead.  'T  would 
have  been  better  for  me,  at  all  events.  0,  how  pleasant 
't  would  have  been  to  spend  my  life  wandering  in  the 
woods,  smelling  the  pines  and  the  hemlock  all  day,  and 
fresh  things  of  all  kinds,  and  no  kitchen  work  to  do,  — 
not  to  rake  up  the  fire,  nor  sweep  the  room,  nor  make 
the  beds,  —  but  to  sleep  on  fresh  boughs  in  a  wigwam, 
with  the  leaves  still  on  the  branches  that  made  the  roof! 
And  then  to  see  the  deer  brought  in  by  the  red  hunter, 
and  the  blood  streaming  from  the  arrow-dart !  AbJ_ 
and  the  fight  too !  and  the  scalping !  and,  perhaps,  a 
woman  might  creep  into  the  battle,  and  steal  the  wounded 
enemy  away  of  her  tribe  and  scalp  him,  and  be  prai§ed__ 
for  it !  O  Seppy,  how  I  hate  the  thought  of  the  dull 
life  women  lead !  A  white  woman's  life  is  so  dull ! 
Thank  Heaven,  I'm  done  with  it !  If  I'm  ever  to  live 
again,  may  I  be  whole  Indian,  please  my  Maker !  " 

After  this  goodly  outburst,  Aunt  Keziah  lay  quietly 
for  a  few  moments,  and  her  skinny  claws  being  clasped 
together,  and  her  yellow  visage  grinning,  as  pious  an 
aspect  as  was  attainable  by  her  harsh  and  pain-distorted 
features,  Septimius  perceived  that  she  was  in  prayer. 
And  so  it  proved  by  what  followed,  for  the  old  woman 
turned  to  him  with  a  grim  tenderness  on  her  face,  and 
stretched  out  her  hand  to  be  taken  in  his  own.  He 
clasped  the  bony  talon  hi  both  his  hands. 

"  Seppy,  my  dear,  I  feel  a  great  peace,  and  I  don't 
think  there  is  so  very  much  to  trouble  me  in  the  other 
world.  It  won't  be  all  house-work,  and  keeping  decent, 
and  doing  like  other  people  there.  I  suppose  I  need  n't 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  145 

expect  to  ride  on  a  broomstick,  —  tbat  would  be  wrong 
in  any  kind  of  a  world,  —  but  there  may  be  woods  to 
wander  in,  and  a  pipe  to  smoke  in  the  air  of  heaven ; 
trees  to  hear  the  wind  in,  and  to  smell  of,  and  all  such 
natural,  happy  things ;  and  by  and  by  I  shall  hope  to  see 
you  there,  Seppy,  my  darling  boy  !  Come  by  and  by ; 
'tis  n't  worth  your  while  to  live  forever,  even  if  you 
should  find  out  what 's  wanting  in  the  drink  I  've  taught 
you.  I  can  see  a  little  way  into  the  next  world  now,  and 
I  see  it  to  be  far  better  than  this  heavy  and  wretched  old 
place.  You'll  die  when  your  time  comes;  won't  you, 
Seppy,  my  darling  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dear  auntie,  when  my  time  comes,"  said  Sep- 
timius.  "  Very  likely  I  shall  want  to  live  no  longer  by 
that  time." 

"Likely  not,"  said  the  old  woman.  "I'm  sure  I 
don't.  It  is  like  going  to  sleep  on  my  mother's  breast 
to  die.  So  good  night,  dear  Seppy !  " 

"  Good  night,  and  God  bless  you,  aunty  !  "  said  Sep- 
timius,  with  a  gush  of  tears  blinding  him,  spite  of  his 
Indian  nature. 

The  old  woman  composed  herself,  and  lay  quite  still 
and  decorous  for  a  short  time ;  then,  rousing  herself  a 
little,  "  Septimius,"  said  she,  "  is  there  just  a  little  drop 
of  my  drink  left  ?  Not  that  I  want  to  live  any  longer, 
but  if  I  could  sip  ever  so  little,  I  feel  as  if  I  should  step 
into  the  other  world  quite  cheery,  with  it  warm  in  my 
heart,  and  not  feel  shy  and  bashful  at  going  among 
strangers." 

"  Not  one  drop,  auntie." 

"  Ah,  well,  no  matter !  It  was  not  quite  right,  that 
7  J 


146  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

last  cup.  It  had  a  queer  taste.  What  could  you  have 
put  into  it,  Seppy,  darling  ?  But  no  matter,  no  matter ! 
It 's  a  precious  stuff,  if  you  make  it  right.  Don't  forget 
the  herbs,  Septimius.  Something  wrong  had  certainly 
got  into  it." 

These,  except  for  some  murmurings,  some  groanings 
and  unintelligible  whisperings,  were  the  last  utterances 
of  poor  Aunt  Keziah,  who  did  not  live  a  great  while 
longer,  and  at  last  passed  away  in  a  great  sigh,  like  a 
gust  of  wind  among  the  trees,  she  having  just  before 
stretched  out  her  hand  again  and  grasped  that  of  Sep- 
timius; and  he  sat  watching  her  and  gazing  at  her, 
wondering  and  horrified,  touched,  shocked  by  death,  of 
which  he  had  so  unusual  a  terror,  —  and  by  the  death  of 
this  creature  especially,  with  whom  he  felt  a  sympathy 
that  did  not  exist  with  any  other  person  now  living.  So 
long  did  he  sit,  holding  her  hand,  that  at  last  he  was  con- 
scious that  it  was  growing  cold  within  his  own,  and  that 
the  stiffening  fingers  clutched  him,  as  if  they  were  dis- 
posed to  keep  their  hold,  and  not  forego  the  tie  that  had 
been  so  peculiar. 

Then  rushing  hastily  forth,  he  told  the  nearest  avail- 
able neighbor,  who  was  Robert  Hagburn's  mother;  and 
she  summoned  some  of  her  gossips,  and  came  to  the 
house,  and  took  poor  Aunt  Keziah  in  charge.  They 
talked  of  her  with  no  great  respect,  I  fear,  nor  much  sor- 
row, nor  sense  that  the  community  would  suffer  any 
great  deprivation  in  her  loss ;  for,  in  their  view,  she  was  a 
dram-drinking,  pipe-smoking,  cross-grained  old  maid,  and, 
as  some  thought,  a  witch;  and,  at  any  rate,  with  too 
much  of  the  Indian  blood  in  her  to  be  of  much  use ;  and 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  147 

they  hoped  that  now  Rose  Garfield  would  have  a  pleas- 
anter  life,  and  Septimius  study  to  be  a  minister,  and  all 
things  go  well,  and  the  place  be  cheerfuller.  They  found 
Aunt  Keziah's  bottle  in  the  cupboard,  and  tasted  and 
smelt  of  it. 

"Good  West  Indjy  as  ever  I  tasted,"  said  Mrs.  Hag- 
burn;  "and  there  stands  her  broken  pitcher,  on  the 
hearth.  Ah,  empty !  I  never  could  bring  my  mind  to 
taste  it;  but  now  I'm  sorry  I  never  did,  for  I  suppose 
nobody  in  the  world  can  make  any  more  of  it." 

Septimius,  meanwhile,  had  betaken  himself  to  the  hill- 
top, which  was  his  place  of  refuge  on  all  occasions  when 
the  house  seemed  too  stifled  to  contain  him ;  and  there 
he  walked  to  and  fro,  with  a  certain  kind  of  calmness  and 
indifference  that  he  wondered  at ;  for  there  is  hardly  any- 
thing in  this  world  so  strange  as  the  quiet  surface  that 
spreads  over  a  man's  mind  in  his  greatest  emergencies : 
so  that  he  deems  himself  perfectly  quiet,  and  upbraids 
himself  with  not  feeling  anything,  when  indeed  he  is  pas- 
sion-stirred. As  Septimius  walked  to  and  fro,  he  looked 
at  the  rich  crimson  flowers,  which  seemed  to  be  bloom- 
ing in  greater  profusion  and  luxuriance  than  ever  before. 
He  had  made  an  experiment  with  these  flowers,  and  lie 
was  curious  to  know  whether  that  experiment  had  been 
the  cause  of  Aunt  Keziah's  death.  Not  that  he  felt 
any  remorse  therefor,  in  any  case,  or  believed  himself  to 
have  committed  a  crime,  having  really  intended  and  de- 
sired nothing  but  good.  I  suppose  such  things  (and  he 
must  be  a  lucky  physician,  methinks,  who  has  no  such 
mischief  within  his  own  experience)  never  weigh  with 
deadly  weight  on  any  man's  conscience.  Something 


148  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

must  be  risked  in  the  cause  of  science,  and  in  desperate 
cases  something  must  be  risked  for  the  patient's  self. 
Septimius,  much  as  he  loved  life,  would  not  have  hesi- 
tated to  put  his  own  life  to  the  same  risk  that  he  had 
imposed  on  Aunt  Keziah ;  or  if  he  did  hesitate,  it  would 
have  been  only  because,  if  the  experiment  turned  out 
disastrously  in  his  own  person,  he  would  not  be  in  a 
position  to  make  another  and  more  successful  trial ; 
whereas,  by  trying  it  on  others,  the  man  of  science  still 
reserves  himself  for  new  efforts,  and  does  not  put  all  the 
hopes  of  the  world,  so  far  as  involved  in  his  success,  on 
one  cast  of  the  die. 

By  and  by  he  met  Sybil  Dacy,  who  had  ascended  the 
hill,  as  was  usual  with  her,  at  sunset,  and  came  towards 
him,  gazing  earnestly  in  his  face. 

"They  tell  me  poor  Aunt  Keziah  is  no  more,"  said 
she. 

"  She  is  dead,"  said  Septimius. 

"  The  flower  is  a  very  famous  medicine,"  said  the 
girl,  "  but  everything  depends  on  its  being  applied  in 
the  proper  way." 

"Do  you  know  the  way,  then?"  asked  Septimius. 

"No;  you  should  ask  Doctor  Portsoaken  about  that," 
said  Sybil. 

Doctor  Portsoaken !  And  so  he  should  consult  him. 
That  eminent  chemist  and  scieutiflc  man  had  evidently 
heard  of  the  recipe,  and  at  all  events  would  be  acquaint- 
ed with  the  best  methods  of  gettimg  the  virtues  out  of 
flowers  and  herbs,  some  of  which,  Septimius  had  read 
enough  to  know,  were  poison  in  one  phase  and  shape 
of  preparation,  and  possessed  of  richest  virtues  in  others ; 


SEPTIMIL'S    FELTON. 

their  poison,  as  one  may  say,  serving  as  a  dark  and  ter- 
rible safeguard,  which  Providence  has  set  to  watch  over 
their  preciousuess ;  even  as  a  dragon,  or  some  wild  and 
fiendish  spectre,  is  set  to  watch  and  keep  hidden  gold  and 
heaped-up  diamonds.  A  dragon  always  waits  on  every- 
thing that  is  very  good.  And  what  would  deserve  the 
watch  and  ward  of  danger  of  a  dragon,  or  something 
more  fatal  than  a  dragon,  if  not  this  treasure  of  which 
Septimius  was  in  quest,  and  the  discovery  and  possession 
of  which  would  enable  him  to  break  down  one  of  the 
strongest  barriers  of  nature  ?  It  ought  to  be  death,  he 
acknowledged  it,  to  attempt  such  a  thing;  for  how 
changed  would  be  life  if  he  should  succeed ;  how  ne- 
cessary it  was  that  mankind  should  be  defended  from 
such  attempts  on  the  general  rule  on  the  part  of  all  but 
him.  How  could  Death  be  spared?  — then  the  sire 
would  live  forever,  and  the  heir  never  come  to  his  in- 
heritance, and  so  he  would  at  once  hate  his  own  father, 
from  the  perception  that  he  would  never  be  out  of  his 
way.  Then  the  same  class  of  powerful  minds  would  al- 
ways rule  the  state,  and  there  would  never  be  a  change 
of  policy. 

[Here  several  pages  are  missing.  —  ED.] 

Through  such  scenes  Septimius  sought  out  the  direc- 
tion that  Doctor  Portsoaken  had  given  him,  and  came  to 
the  door  of  a  house  in  the  olden  part  of  the  town.  The 
Boston  of  those  days  had  very  much  the  aspect  of  pro- 
vincial towns  in  England,  such  as  may  still  be  seen 
there,  while  our  own  city  has  undergone  such  wonderful 
changes  that  little  likeness  to  what  our  ancestors  made  it 


150  SEPTIMIUS    VELTON. 

can  now  be  found.  The  streets,  crooked  and  narrow ; 
the  houses,  many  gabled,  projecting,  with  latticed  win- 
dows and  diamond  panes;  without  sidewalks;  with 
rough  pavements. 

Septimius  knocked  loudly  at  the  door,  nor  had  long 
to  wait  before  a  serving-maid  appeared,  who  seemed  to 
be  of  English  nativity ;  and  in  reply  to  his  request  for 
Doctor  Portsoaken  bade  him  come  in,  and  led  him  up  a 
staircase  with  broad  landing-places ;  then  tapped  at  the 
door  of  a  room,  and  was  responded  to  by  a  gruff  voice 
saying,  "  Come  in  ! "  The  woman  held  the  door  open, 
and  Septimius  saw  the  veritable  Doctor  Portsoaken  in 
an  old,  faded  morning-gown,  and  with  a  nightcap  on  his 
head,  his  German  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  a  brandy-bottle, 
to  the  best  of  our  belief,  on  the  table  by  his  side. 

"Come  in,  come  in,"  said  the  gruff  doctor,  nodding 
to  Septimius.  "I  remember  you.  Come  in,  man,  and 
tell  me  your  business." 

Septimius  did  come  in,  but  was  so  struck  by  the 
aspect  of  Dr.  Portsoaken's  apartment,  and  his  gown, 
that  he  did  not  immediately  tell  his  business.  In  the 
first  place,  everything  looked  very  dusty  and  dirty,  so 
that  evidently  no  woman  had  ever  been  admitted  into 
this  sanctity  of  a  place ;  a  fact  made  all  the  more  evi- 
dent by  the  abundance  of  spiders,  who  had  spun  their 
webs  about  the  walls  and  ceiling  in  the  wildest  apparent 
confusion,  though  doubtless  each  individual  spider  knew 
the  cordage  which  he  had  lengthened  out  of  his  own 
miraculous  bowels.  But  it  was  really  strange.  They 
had  festooned  their  cordage  on  whatever  was  stationary 
in  the  room,  making  a  sort  of  gray,  dusky  tapestry,  that 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  151 

waved  portentously  in  the  breeze,  and  flapped,  heavy 
and  dismal,  each  with  its  spider  in  the  centre  of  his  own 
system.  And  what  was  most  marvellous  was  a  spider 
over  the  doctor's  head  ;  a  spider,  I  think,  of  some  South 
American  breed,  with  a  circumference  of  its  many  legs 
as  big,  unless  I  am  misinformed,  as  a  teacup,  and  with 
a  body  in  the  midst  as  large  as  a  dollar;  giving  the 
spectator  horrible  qualms  as  to  what  would  be  the  conse- 
quence if  this  spider  should  be  crushed,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  suggesting  the  poisonous  danger  of  suffering  such 
a  monster  to  live.  The  monster,  however,  sat  in  the 
midst  of  the  stalwart  cordage  of  his  web,  right  over  the 
doctor's  head ;  and  he  looked,  with  all  those  complicated 
lines,  like  the  symbol  of  a  conjurer  or  crafty  politician  in 
the  midst  of  the  complexity  of  his  scheme  ;  and  Septim- 
ius  wondered  if  he  were  not  the  type  of  Dr.  Portsoaken 
himself,  who,  fat  and  bloated  as  the  spider,  seemed  to 
be  the  centre  of  some  dark  contrivance.  And  could  it 
be  that  poor  Septimius  was  typified  by  the  fascinated  fly, 
doomed  to  be  entangled  by  the  web  ? 

"  Good  day  to  you,"  said  the  gruff  doctor,  taking  his 
pipe  from  his  mouth.  "Here  I  am,  with  my  brother 
spiders,  in  the  midst  of  my  web.  I  told  you,  you 
remember,  the  wonderful  efficacy  which  I  had  discovered! 
in  spiders'  webs ;  and  this  is  my  laboratory,  where  I 
have  hundreds  of  workmen  concocting  my  panacea  for 
me.  Is  it  not  a  lovely  sight  ?  " 

"  A  wonderful  one,  at  least,"  said  Septimius.  "  That 
one  above  your  head,  the  monster,  is  calculated  to  give 
a  very  favorable  idea  of  your  theory.  What  a  quantity 
of  poison  there  must  be  in  him  !  " 


152  SEPTIMIUS    FELTOtf. 

"  Poison,  do  you  call  it  ? "  quoth  the  grim  doctor. 
"  That 's  entirely  as  it  may  be  used.  Doubtless  his  bite 
would  send  a  man  to  kingdom  come ;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  no  one  need  want  a  better  life-line  than  that  fel- 
low's web.  He  and  I  are  firm  friends,  and  I  believe  he 
would  know  my  enemies  by  instinct.  But  come,  sit 
do\vn,  and  take  a  glass  of  brandy.  No  ?  Well,  I  '11 
drink  it  for  you.  And  how  is  the  old  aunt  yonder,  with 
her  infernal  nostrum,  the  bitterness  and  uauseousuess  of 
which  my  poor  stomach  has  not  yet  forgotten  ?  " 

"  My  Aunt  Keziah  is  no  more,"  said  Septimius. 

"  No  more !  Well,  I  trust  in  heaven  she  has  carried  her 
secret  with  her,"  said  the  doctor.  "  If  anything  could 
comfort  you  for  her  loss,  it  would  be  that.  But  what 
brings  you  to  Boston  ?  " 

"Only  a  dried  flower  or  two,"  said  Septiraius,  pro- 
ducing some  specimens  of  the  strange  growth  of  the 
grave.  "I  want  you  to  tell  me  about  them." 

The  naturalist  took  the  flowers  in  his  hand,  one  of 
which  had  the  root  appended,  and  examined  them  with 
great  minuteness  and  some  surprise ;  two  or  three  times 
looking  in  Septimius's  face  with  a  puzzled  and  inquiring 
air ;  then  examined  them  again. 

"  Do  you  tell  me,"  said  he,  "  that  the  plant  has  been 
found  indigenous  in  this  country,  and  in  your  part  of 
it  ?  And  in  what  locality  ?  " 

"  Indigenous,  so  far  as  I  know,"  answered  Septimius. 
"  As  to  the  locality,"  —  he  hesitated  a  little,  —  "  it  is  on 
a  small  hillock,  scarcely  bigger  than  a  molehill,  on  the 
hill-top  behind  my  house." 

The  naturalist  looked  steadfastly  at  him  with  red,  burn- 


SEPTIM1US    FELTON.  153 

ing  eyes,  under  his  deep,  impending,  shaggy  brows ;  theu 
again  at  the  flower. 

"  Flower,  do  you  call  it  ?  "  said  he,  after  a  re-examina- 
tion. "  This  is  no  flower,  though  it  so  closely  resembles 
one,  and  a  beautiful  o'ue,  —  yes,  most  beautiful.  But  it 
is  no  flower.  It  is  a  certain  very  rare  fungus,  —  so  rare 
as  almost  to  be  thought  fabulous;  and  there  are  the 
strangest  superstitious,  coming  down  from  ancient  times, 
as  to  the  mode  of  production.  What  sort  of  manure  had 
been  put  into  that  hillock  ?  Was  it  merely  dried  leaves, 
the  refuse  of  the  forest,  or  something  else  ?  " 

Septimius  hesitated  a  little ;  but  there  was  no  reason 
why  he  should  not  disclose  the  truth,  — as  much  of  it  as 
Doctor  Portsoaken  cared  to  know. 

"The  hillock  where  it  grew,"  answered  he,  "was  a 
grave." 

"A  grave!  Strange!  strange!"  quoth  Doctor  Port- 
soaken. "Now  these  old  superstitions  sometimes  prove 
to  have  a  germ  of  truth  in  them,  which  some  philosopher 
has  doubtless  long  ago,  in  forgotten  ages,  discovered  and 
made  known ;  but  in  process  of  time  his  learned  memory 
passes  away,  but  the  truth,  undiscovered,  survives  him, 
and  the  people  get  hold  of  it,  and  make  it  the  nucleus  of 
all  sorts  of  folly.  So  it  grew  out  of  a  grave  !  Yes,  yes ; 
and  probably  it  would  have  grown  out  of  any  other  dead 
flesh,  as  well  as  that  of  a  human  being;  a  dog  would  have 
answered  the  purpose  as  well  as  a  man.  You  must  know 
that  the  seeds  of  fungi  are  scattered  so  universally  over 
the  world  that,  only  comply  with  the  conditions,  and  you 
will  produce  them  everywhere.  Prepare  the  bed  it  loves, 
and  a  mushroom  will  spring  up  spontaneously,  an  excel- 
7* 


154,  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

lent  food,  like  manna  from  heaven.  So  superstition  says, 
kill  your  deadliest  enemy,  and  plant  him,  and  he  will 
come  up  in  a  delicious  fungus,  which  I  presume  to  be 
this  ;  steep  him,  or  distil  him,  and  he  will  make  an  elixir 
of  life  for  you.  I  suppose  there  is  some  foolish  symbol- 
ism or  other  about  the  matter;  but  the  fact  I  affirm  to 
be  nonsense.  Dead  flesh  under  some  certain  conditions 
of  rain  and  sunshine,  not  at  present  ascertained  by 
science,  will  produce  the  fungus,  whether  the  manure  be 
friend,  or  foe,  or  cattle." 

"  And  as  to  its  medical  efficacy  ?  "  asked  Septimius. 

"That  may  be  great  for  aught  I  know,"  said  Port- 
soaken;  "but  I  am  content  with  my  cobwebs.  You 
may  seek  it  out  for  yourself.  But  if  the  poor  fellow  lost 
his  life  in  the  supposition  that  he  might  be  a  useful  in- 
gredient in  a  recipe,  you  are  rather  an  unscrupulous 
practitioner." 

"  The  person  whose  mortal  relics  fill  that  grave,"  said 
Septimius,  "  was  no  enemy  of  mine  (no  private  enemy,  I 
mean,  though  he  stood  among  the  enemies  of  my  coun- 
try), nor  had  I  anything  to  gain  by  his  death.  I  strove 
to  avoid  aiming  at  his  life*  but  he  compelled  me." 

"Many  a  chance  shot  brings  down  the  bird,"  said 
Doctor  Portsoaken.  "  You  say  you  had  no  interest  in 
his  death.  We  shall  see  that  in  the  end." 

Septimius  did  not  try  to  follow  the  conversation  among 
the  mysterious  hints  with  which  the  doctor  chose  to  in- 
volve it ;  but  he  now  sought  to  gain  some  information 
from  him  as  to  the  mode  of  preparing  the  recipe,  and 
whether  he  thought  it  would  be  most  efficacious  as  a  de- 
coction, or  as  a  distillation.  The  learned  chemist  sup- 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  155 

ported  most  decidedly  the  latter  opinion,  and  showed 
Septimius  how  he  might  make  for  himself  a  simpler  appa- 
ratus, with  no  better  aids  than  Aunt  Keziah's  teakettle, 
and  one  or  two  trifling  things,  which  the  doctor  himself 
supplied,  by  which  all  might  be  done  with  every  neces- 
sary scrupulousness. 

"  Let  me  look  again  at  the  formula,"  said  he.  "  There 
are  a  good  many  minute  directions  that  appear  trifling, 
but  it  is  not  safe  to  neglect  any  minutiae  in  the  prepara- 
tion of  an  affair  like  this ;  because,  as  it  is  all  mysterious 
and  unknown  ground  together,  we  cannot  tell  which  may 
be  the  important  and  efficacious  part.  For  instance, 
when  all  else  is  done,  the  recipe  is  to  be  exposed  seven 
days  to  the  sun  at  noon.  That  does  not  look  very  impor- 
tant, but  it  may  be.  Then  again,  '  Steep  it  in  moonlight 
during  the  second  quarter.'  That 's  all  moonshine,  one 
would  think  ;  but  there  's  no  saying.  It  is  singular,  with 
such  preciseness,  that  no  distinct  directions  are  given 
whether  to  infuse,  decoct,  distil,  or  what  other  way ;  but 
my  advise  is  to  distil." 

"  I  will  do  it,"  said  Septimius,  "  and  not  a  direction 
shall  be  neglected." 

"  I  shall  be  curious  to  know  the  result,"  said  Doctor 
Portsoaken,  "  and  am  glad  to  see  the  zeal  with  which  you 
enter  into  the  matter.  A  very  valuable  medicine  may  be 
recovered  to  science  through  your  agency,  and  you  may 
make  your  fortune  by  it ;  though,  for  my  part,  I  prefer 
to  trust  to  my  cobwebs.  This  spider,  now,  is  not  he  a 
lovely  object  ?  See,  he  is  quite  capable  of  knowledge  and 
affection." 

There  seemed,  in  fact,  to  be  some  mode  of  communica- 


156  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

tion  between  the  doctor  and  bis  spider,  for  on  some  sign 
given  by  the  former,  imperceptible  to  Septimius,  the 
many-legged  monster  let  himself  down  by  a  cord,  which 
he  extemporized  out  of  his  own  bowels,  and  came  dang- 
ling his  huge  bulk  down  before  his  master's  face,  while 
the  latter  lavished  many  epithets  of  endearment  upon 
him,  ludicrous,  and  not  without  horror,  as  applied  to 
such  a  hideous  production  of  nature. 

"  I  assure  you,"  said  Doctor  Portsoaken,  "  I  run  some 
risk  from  my  intimacy  with  this  lovely  jewel,  and  if  I 
behave  not  all  the  more  prudently,  your  countrymen 
will  hang  me  for  a  wizard,  and  annihilate  this  precious 
spider  as  my  familiar.  There  would  be  a  loss  to  the 
world ;  not  small  in  my  own  case,  but  enormous  in  the 
case  of  the  spider.  Look  at  him  now,  and  see  if  the 
mere  uuinstructed  observation  does  not  discover  a  won- 
derful value  in  him." 

In  truth,  when  looked  at  closely,  the  spider  really 
showed  that  a  care  and  art  had  been  bestowed  upon  his 
make,  not  merely  as  regards  curiosity,  but  absolute 
beauty,  that  seemed  to  indicate  that  he  must  be  a  rather 
distinguished  creature  in  the  view  of  Providence;  so 
variegated  was  he  with  a  thousand  minute  spots,  spots 
of  color,  glorious  radiance,  and  such  a  brilliance  was 
attained  by  many  conglomerated  brilliancies ;  and  it  was 
very  strange  that  all  this  care  was  bestowed  on  a  crea- 
ture that,  probably,  had  never  been  carefully  considered 
except  by  the  two  pair  of  eyes  that  were  now  upon  it ; 
and  that,  in  spite  of  its  beauty  and  magnificence,  could 
only  be  looked  at  with  an  effort  to  overcome  the  mys- 
terious repulsiveness  of  its  presence;  for  all  the  time 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  157 

that  Septimius  looked  and  admired,  he  still  hated  the 
thing,  and  thought  it  wrong  that  it  was  ever  born,  and 
wished  that  it  could  be  annihilated.  Whether  the  spider 
was  conscious  of  the  wish,  we  are  unable  to  say ;  but 
certainly  Septimius  felt  as  if  he  were  hostile  to  him,  and 
had  a  mind  to  sting  him ;  and,  in  fact,  Doctor  Port- 
soaken  seemed  of  the  same  opinion. 

"  Aha,  my  friend,"  said  he,  "  I  would  advise  you  not 
to  come  too  near  Orontes !  He  is  a  lovely  beast,  it  is 
true  ;  but  iu  a  certain  recess  of  this  splendid  form  of 
his  he  keeps  a  modest  supply  of  a  certain  potent  and 
piercing  poison,  which  would  produce  a  wonderful  effect 
on  any  flesh  to  which  he  chose  to  apply  it.  A  powerful 
fellow  is  Orontes ;  and  he  has  a  great  sense  of  his  own 
dignity  and  importance,  and  will  not  allow  it  to  be  im- 
posed on." 

Septimius  moved  from  the  vicinity  of  the  spider,  who, 
in  fact,  retreated,  by  climbing  up  his  cord,  and  en- 
sconced himself  in  the  middle  of  his  web,  where  he 
remained  waiting  for  his  prey.  Septimius  wondered 
whether  the  doctor  were  symbolized  by  the  spider,  and 
was  likewise  waiting  in  the  middle  of  his  web  for  his 
prey.  As  he  saw  no  way,  however,  in  which  the  doctor 
could  make  a  profit  out  of  himself,  or  how  he  could  be 
victimized,  the  thought  did  not  much  disturb  his  equa- 
nimity. He  was  about  to  take  his  leave,  but  the  doctor, 
in  a  derisive  kind  of  way,  bade  him  sit  still,  for  he  pur- 
posed keeping  him  as  a  guest,  that  night,  at  least. 

"  I  owe  you  a  dinner,"  said  he,  "  and  will  pay  it  with 
a  supper  and  knowledge ;  and  before  we  part  I  have 
certain  inquiries  to  make,  of  which  you  may  not  at  6rst 


158  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

see  the  object,  but  yet  are  not  quite  purposeless.  My 
familiar,  up  aloft  there,  has  whispered  me  something 
about  you,  and  I  rely  greatly  on  his  intimations." 

Septimius,  who  was  sufficiently  common-sensible,  and 
invulnerable  to  superstitious  influences  on  every  point 
except  that  to  which  he  had  surrendered  himself,  was 
easily  prevailed  upon  to  stay ;  for  he  found  the  sin- 
gular, charlatanic,  mysterious  lore  of  the  man  curious, 
and  he  had  enough  of  real  science  to  at  least  make  him 
an  object  of  interest  to  one  who  knew  nothing  of  the 
matter;  and  Septimius's  acuteness,  too,  was  piqued  in 
trying  to  make  out  what  manner  of  man  he  really  was, 
and  how  much  in  him  was  genuine  science  and  self-belief, 
and  how  much  quackery  and  pretension  and  conscious 
empiricism.  So  he  stayed,  and  supped  with  the  doctor 
at  a  table  heaped  more  bountifully,  and  with  rarer  dain- 
ties, than  Septimius  had  ever  before  conceived  of;  and 
in  his  simpler  cognizance,  heretofore,  of  eating  merely  to 
live,  he  could  not  but  wonder  to  see  a  man  of  thought 
caring  to  eat  of  more  than  one  dish,  so  that  most  of  the 
meal,  on  his  part,  was  spent  in  seeing  the  doctor  feed  and 
hearing  him  discourse  upon  his  food. 

"If  man  lived  only  to  eat,"  quoth  the  doctor,  "one 
life  would  not  suffice,  not  merely  to  exhaust  the  pleasure 
of  it,  but  even  to  get  the  rudiments  of  it." 

When  this  important  business  was  over,  the  doctor  and 
his  guest  sat  down  again  in  his  laboratory,  where  the 
former  took  care  to  have  his  usual  companion,  the  black 
bottle,  at  his  elbow,  and  filled  his  pipe,  and  seemed  to 
feel  a  certain  sullen,  genial,  fierce,  brutal,  kindly  mood 
enough,  and  looked  at  Septimius  with  a  sort  of  friend- 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  159 

ship,  as  if  he  had  as  lief  shake  hands  with  him  as  knock 
him  down. 

"  Now  for  a  talk  about  business,"  said  he. 

Septimius  thought,  however,  that  the  doctor's  talk 
began,  at  least,  at  a  sufficient  remoteness  from  any  prac- 
tical business  ;  for  he  began  to  question  about  his  remote 
ancestry,  what  he  knew,  or  what  record  had  been  pre- 
served, of  the  first  emigrant  from  England ;  whence, 
from  what  shire  or  part  of  England,  that  ancestor  had 
come ;  whether  there  were  any  memorial  of  any  kind  re- 
maining of  him,  any  letters  or  written  documents,  wills, 
deeds,  or  other  legal  paper ;  in  short,  all  about  him. 

Septimius  could  not  satisfactorily  see  whether  these 
inquiries  were  made  with  any  definite  purpose,  or  from  a 
mere  general  curiosity  to  discover  how  a  family  of  early 
settlement  in  America  might  still  be  linked  with  the  old 
country ;  whether  there  were  any  tendrils  stretching 
across  the  gulf  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  by  which 
the  American  branch  of  the  family  was  separated  from 
the  trunk  of  the  family  tree  in  England.  The  doctor 
partly  explained  this. 

"  You  must  know,"  said  he,  "  that  the  name  you  bear, 
Felton,  is  one  formerly  of  much  eminence  and  repute  in 
my  part  of  England,  and,  indeed,  very  recently  possessed 
of  wealth  and  station.  I  should  like  to  know  if  you  are 
of  that  race." 

Septimius  answered  with  such  facts  and  traditions  as 
had  come  to  his  knowledge  respecting  his  family  history ; 
a  sort  of  history  that  is  quite  as  liable  to  be  mythical, 
in  its  early  and  distant  stages,  as  that  of  Rome,  and,  in- 
deed, seldom  goes  three  or  four  generations  back  without 


160  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

getting  iuto  a  mist  really  impenetrable,  though  great, 
gloomy,  and  magnificent  shapes  of  men  often  seem  to 
loom  in  it,  who,  if  they  could  be  brought  close  to  the 
naked  eye,  would  turn  out  as  commonplace  as  the  de- 
scendants who  wonder  at  and  admire  them.  He  remem- 
bered Aunt  Keziah's  legend,  and  said  he  had  reason  to 
believe  that  his  first  ancestor  came  over  aF~a  somewhat 
earlier  date  than  the  first  Puritan  settlers,  and"  dwelt 
among  the  Indians,  where  (and  here  the  young  man  cast 
down  his  eyes,  having  the  customary  American  abhor- 
rence for  any  mixture  of  blood)  he  had  intermarried 
with  the  daughter  of  a  sagamore,  and  succeeded  to  his 
rule.  This  might  have  happened  as  early  as  the  end  of 
Elizabeth's  reign,  perhaps  later.  It  was  impossible  to 
decide  dates  on  such  a  matter.  There  had  been  a  son 
of  this  connection,  perhaps  more  than  one,  but  certainly 
one  son,  who,  on  the  arrival  of  the  Puritans,  was  a 
youth,  his  father  appearing  to  have  been  slain  in  some 
outbreak  of  the  tribe,  perhaps  owing  to  the  jealousy  of 
prominent  chiefs,  at  seeing  their  natural  authority  ab- 
rogated or  absorbed  by  a  man  of  different  race.  He 
slightly  alluded  to  the  supernatural  attributes  that  gath- 
ered round  this  predecessor,  but  in  a  way  to  imply  that 
he  put  no  faith  in  them ;  for  Septimius's  natural  keen 
sense  and  perception  kept  him  from  betraying  his  weak- 
nesses to  the  doctor,  by  the  same  instinctive  and  subtle 
caution  with  which  a  madman  can  so  well  conceal  his 
infirmity. 

On  the  arrival  of  the  Puritans,  they  had  found  among 
the  Indians  a  youth  partly  of  their  own  blood,  able, 
though  imperfectly,  to  speak  their  language,  —  having, 


sSEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  161 

at,  least,  some  early  recollections  of  it,  —  inheriting,  also, 
a  share  of  influence  over  the  tribe  on  which  his  father 
had  grafted  him.  Jtjwas  natural  that  they  should  pay 
especial  attention  to  this  youth,  consider  it  their  duty  to 
give  him  religious  instruction  in  the  faith  of  his  fathers, 
and  try  to  use  him  as  a  means  of  influencing  his  tribe. 
They  did  so,  but  did  not  succeed  in  swaying  the  tribe 
by  his  means,  their  success  having  been  limited  to  win- 
ning the  half-Indian  from  the  wild  ways  of  his  mother's 
people,  into  a  certain  partial,  but  decent  accommodation 
to  those  of  the  English.  A  tendency  to  civilization  was 
brought  out  in  his  character  by  their  rigid  training ;  at 
least,  his  savage  wildness  was  broken.  He  built  a  house 
among  them,  with  a  good  deal  of  the  wigwam,  no  doubt, 
in  its  style  of  architecture,  but  still  a  permanent  house, 
near  which  he  established  a  corn-field,  a  pumpkin-garden, 
a  melon-patch,  and  became  farmer  enough  to  be  entitled 
to  ask  the  hand  of  a  Puritan  maiden.  There  he  spent  his 
life,  with  some  few  instances  of  temporary  relapse  into  sav- 
age wildness,  when  he  fished  in  the  river  Musquehannah, 
or  in  Walden,  or  strayed  in  the  woods,  when  he  should 
have  been  planting  or  hoeing ;  but,  on  the  whole,  the 
race  had  been  redeemed  from  barbarism  in  his  person, 
and  in  the  succeeding  generations  had  been  tamed  more 
and  more.  The  second  generation  had  been  distin- 
guished in  the  Indian  wars  of  the  provinces,  and  then 
intermarried  with  the  stock  of  a  distinguished  Puritan 
divine,  by  which  means  Septimius  could  reckon  great 
and  learned  men,  scholars  of  old  Cambridge,  among  his 
ancestry  on  one  side,  while  on  the  other  it  ran  up  to 
the  early  emigrants,  who  seemed  to  have  been  remarka- 


162  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

He  men,  and  to  that  strange  wild  lineage  of  Indian 
chiefs,  whose  blood  was  like  that  of  persons  not  quite 
human,  intermixed  with  civilized  blood. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  the  doctor,  musingly,  "  whether 
there  are  really  no  documents  to  ascertain  the  epoch  at 
which  that  old  first  emigrant  came  over,  and  whence  he 
came,  and  precisely  from  what  English  family.  Often 
the  last  heir  of  some  respectable  name  dies  in  England, 
and  we  say  that  the  family  is  extinct;  whereas,  very 
possibly,  it  may  be  abundantly  •flourishing  in  the  New 
World,  revived  by  the  rich  infusion  of  new  blood  in  a 
new  soil,  instead  of  growing  feebler,  heavier,  stupider, 
each  year  by  sticking  to  an  old  soil,  intermarrying  over 
and  over  again  with  the  same  respectable  families,  till  it 
has  made  common  stock  of  all  their  vices,  weaknesses, 
madnesses.  Have  you  no  documents,  I  say,  no  muni- 
ment deed  ?  " 

"  None,"  said  Septimius. 

"  No  old  furniture,  desks,  trunks,  chests,  cabinets  ?  " 

"You  must  remember,"  said  Septimius,  "that  my 
Indian  ancestor  was  not  very  likely  to  have  brought 
such  things  out  of  the  forest  with  him.  A  wandering 
Indian  does  not  carry  a  chest  of  papers  with  him.  I 
do  remember,  in  my  childhood,  a  little  old  iron-bound 
chest,  or  coffer,  of  which  the  key  was  lost,  and  which 
my  Aunt  Keziah  used  to  say  came  down  from  her  great- 
great-grandfather.  I  don't  know  what  has  become  of  it, 
acd  my  poor  old  aunt  kept  it  among  her  own  treasures." 

"  Well,  my  friend,  do  you  hunt  up  that  old  coffer,  and, 
just  as  a  matter  of  curiosity,  let  me  see  the  contents." 

"  I  have  other  things  to  do,"  said  Septimms. 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  163 

"  Perhaps  so,"  quoth  the  doctor,  "  but  no  other,  as  it 
fpny  turn  out,  of  quite  so  much  importance  as  this.  I  '11 
tell  you  fairly  ;  the  heir  of  a  great  English  house  is 
lately  dead,  and  the  estate  lies  open  to  any  well-sus- 
tained, perhaps  to  any  plausible  claimant.  If  it  should 
appear  from  the  records  of  that  family,  as  I  have  some 
reason  to  suppose,  that  a  member  of  it,  who  would  now 
represent  the  older  branch,  disappeared  mysteriously  and 
unaccountably,  at  a  date  corresponding  with  what  might 
be  ascertained  as  that  of  your  ancestor's  first  appearance 
in  this  country ;  if  any  reasonable  proof  can  be  brought 
forward,  on  the  part  of  the  representatives  of  that  white 
sagamore,  that  wizard  pow-wow,  or  however  you  call 
him,  that  he  was  the  disappearing  Englishman,  why,  a 
good  casp-  i?  midc  out.  Do  you  feel  110  interest  in  such 
a  prospect  ?  " 

"  Very  little,  I  confess,"  said  Septimius. 

"  Very  little !  "  said  the  grim  doctor,  impatiently. 
"  Do  not  you  see  that,  if  you  make  good  your  claim, 
you  establish  for  yourself  a  position  among  the  English 
aristocracy,  and  succeed  to  a  noble  English  estate,  an 
ancient  hall,  where  your  forefathers  have  dwelt  since 
the  Conqueror ;  splendid  gardens,  hereditary  woods  and 
parks,  to  which  anything  America  can  show  is  despi- 
cable, —  all  thoroughly  cultivated  and  adorned,  with  the 
care  and  ingenuity  of  centuries  ;  «nd  an  income,  a  month 
of  which  would  be  greater  wealth  than  any  of  your 
American  ancestors,  raking  and  srraping  for  his  life 
time,  has  ever  got  together,  as  the  accumulated  result  o* 
the  toil  and  penury  by  which  he  has  sacrificed  body  »ud 
soul?" 


164  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

"  That  strain  of  Indian  blood  is  in  me  yet,"  said  Sep. 
timius,  "  and  it  makes  me  despise,  —  no,  not  despise ; 
for  I  can  see  their  desirableness  for  other  people,  —  but 
it  makes  me  reject  for  myself  what  you  think  so  valuable. 
I  do  not  care  for  these  common  aims.  I  have  ambition, 
but  it  is  for  prizes  such  as  other  men  cannot  gain,  and 
do  not  think  of  aspiring  after.  I  could  not  live  in  the 
habits  of  English  life,  as  I  conceive  it  to  be,  and  would 
not,  for  my  part,  be  burdened  with  the  great  estate  you 
speak  of.  It  might  answer  my  purpose  for  a  time.  It 
would  suit  me  well  enough  to  try  that  mode  of  life,  as 
well  as  a  hundred  others,  but  only  for  a  time.  It  is  of 
no  permanent  importance." 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what  it  is,  young  man,"  said  the  doctor, 
testily,  "  you  have  something  in  your  brain  that  makes 
you  talk  very  foolishly ;  and  I  have  partly  a  suspicion 
what  it  is,  —  only  I  can't  think  that  a  fellow  who  is  really 
gifted  with  respectable  sense,  in  other  directions,  should 
be  such  a  confounded  idiot  in  this." 

Septimius  blushed,  but  held  his  peace,  and  the  conver- 
sation languished  after  this ;  the  doctor  grimly  smoking 
his  pipe,  and  by  no  means  increasing  the  milkiuess  of  his 
mood  by  frequent  applications  to  the  black  bottle,  nntil 
Septimius  intimated  that  he  would  like  to  go  to  bed. 
The  old  woman  was  summoned,  and  ushered  him  to  his 
chamber. 

At  breakfast,  the  doctor  partially  renewed  the  subject 
which  he  seemed  to  consider  most  important  in  yester- 
day's conversation. 

"  My  young  friend,"  said  he,  "  I  advise  you  to  look  in 
cellar  and  garret,  or  wherever  you  consider  the  most 


SEPTIM1US    FELTOX.  165 

likely  place,  for  that  iron-bound  coffer.  There  may  be 
nothing  in  it ;  it  may  be  full  of  musty  love-letters,  or  old 
sermons,  or  receipted  bills  of  a  hundred  years  ago ;  but 
it  may  contain  what  will  be  worth  to  you  an  estate  of  five 
thousand  pounds  a  year.  It  is  a  pity  the  old  woman 
with  the  damnable  decoction  is  gone  off.  Look  it  up, 
I  say." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Septimius,  abstractedly,  "  when  I 
can  find  time." 

So  saying,  he  took  his  leave,  and  retraced  his  way 
back  to  his  home.  He  had  not  seemed  like  himself  dur- 
ing the  time  that  elapsed  since  he  left  it,  and  it  appeared 
an  infinite  space  that  he  had  lived  through  and  travelled 
over,  and  he  fancied  h\  hardly  possible  that  he  could  ever 
get  back  again.  But  now,  with  every  step  that  he  took, 
he  found  himself  getting  miserably  back  into  the  old 
enchanted  laud.  The  mist  rose  up  about  him,  the  pale 
mist-bow  of  ghostly  promise  curved  before  him  ;  and  he 
trod  back  again,  poor  boy,  out  of  the  clime  of  real  effort, 
into  the  laud  of  his  dreams  and  shadowy  enterprise. 

"  How  was  it,"  said  he,  "  that  I  can  have  been  so  un- 
true to  my  convictions  ?  Whence  came  that  dark  and 
dull  despair  that  weighed  upon  me  ?  Why  did  I  let  the 
mocking  mood  which  I  was  conscious  of  in  that  brutal, 
brandy-burnt  sceptic  have  such  an  influence  on  me  ? 
Let  him  guzzle  !  He  shall  not  tempt  me  from  my  pur- 
suit, with  his  lure  of  an  estate  and  name  among  those 
heavy  English  beef-eaters  of  whom  he  is  a  brother.  My 
destiny  is  one  which  kings  might  envy,  and  strive  in  vain 
to  buy  with  principalities  and  kingdoms." 

So  he  trod  on  air  almost,  in  the  latter  parts  of  his 


166  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

journey,  and  instead  of  being  wearied,  grew  more  airy 
with  the  latter  miles  that  brought  him  to  his  wayside 
home. 

So  now  Septimius  sat  down  and  began  in  earnest  his 
endeavors  and  experiments  to  prepare  the  medicine,  ac- 
cording to  the  mysterious  terms  of  the  recipe.  It  seemed 
not  possible  to  do  it,  so  many  rebuffs  and  disappointments 
did  he  meet  with.  No  effort  would  produce  a  combina- 
tion answering  to  the  description  of  the  recipe,  which 
propounded  a  brilliant,  gold-colored  liquid,  clear  as  the 
air  itself,  with  a  certain  fragrance  which  was  peculiar  to 
it,  and  also,  what  was  the  more  individual  test  of  the 
correctness  of  the  mixture,  a  certain  coldness  of  the  feel- 
ing, a  chillness  which  was  described  as  peculiarly  re- 
freshing and  invigorating.  With  all  his  trials,  he  pro- 
duced nothing  but  turbid  results,  clouded  generally,  or 
lacking  something  in  color,  and  never  that  fragrance,  and 
never  that  coldness  which  was  to  be  the  test  of  truth. 
He  studied  all  the  books  of  chemistry  which  at  that 
period  were  attainable,  —  a  period  when,  in  the  world,  it 
was  a  science  far  unlike  what  it  has  since  become  ;  and 
when  Septimius  had  no  instruction  in  this  country,  nor 
could  obtain  any  beyond  the  dark,  mysterious,  charla- 
tanic  communications  of  Doctor  Portsoaken.  So  that,  in 
fact,  he  seemed  to  be  discovering  for  himself  the  science 
through  which  he  was  to  work.  He  seemed  to  do  every- 
thing that  was  stated  in  the  recipe,  and  yet  no  results 
came  from  it ;  the  liquid  that  he  produced  was  nauseous 
to  the  smell,  — to  taste  it  he  had  a  horrible  repugnance, 
turbid,  nasty,  reminding  him  in  most  respects  of  poot 
Aunt  Keziah's  elixir ;  and  it  was  a  body  without  a  soul, 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  167 

and  that  body  dead.  And  so  it  went  on  ;  and  the  poorK 
half-maddened  Septimius  began  to  think  that  his  immor-  \ 
tal  life  was  preserved  by  the  mere  effort  of  seeking  for  it,  () 
but  was  to  be  spent  in  the  quest,  and  was  therefore  to  be  / 
made  an  eternity  of  abortive  misery.  He  pored  over  the/ 
document  that  had  so  possessed  him,  turning  its  crabbed 
meanings  every  way,  trying  to  get  out  of  it  some  new 
light,  often  tempted  to  fling  it  into  the  fire  which  he  kept 
under  his  retort,  and  let  the  whole  thing  go ;  but  then 
again,  soon  rising  out  of  that  black  depth  of  despair,  into 
a  determination  to  do  what  he  had  so  long  striven  for. 
With  such  intense  action  of  mind  as  he  brought  to  bear 
on  this  paper,  it  is  wonderful  that  it  was  not  spiritually 
distilled  ;  that  its  essence  did  not  arise,  purified  from  all 
alloy  of  falsehood,  from  all  turbidness  of  obscurity  and 
ambiguity,  and  from  a  pure  essence  of  truth  and  invigo- 
rating motive,  if  of  any  it  were  capable.  In  this  interval, 
Septimius  is  said  by  tradition  to  have  found  out  many 
wonderful  secrets  that  were  almost  beyond  the  scope  of 
science.  It  was  said  that  old  Aunt  Keziah  used  to  come 
with  a  coal  of  fire  from  unknown  furnaces,  to  light  his 
distilling  apparatus  ;  it  was  said,  too,  that  the  ghost  of 
the  old  lord,  whose  ingenuity  had  propounded  this  puzzle 
for  his  descendants,  used  to  come  at  midnight  and  strive 
to  explain  to  him  this  manuscript ;  that  the  Black  Man, 
too,  met  him  on  the  hill-top,  and  promised  him  an  imme- 
diate release  from  his  difficulties,  provided  he  would 
kneel  down  and  worship  him,  and  sign  his  name  in  his 
book,  an  old,  iron-clasped,  much-worn  volume,  which  he 
produced  from  his  ample  pockets,  and  showed  him  in  it 
the  names  of  many  a  man  whose  name  has  become  his- 


168  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

toric,  and  above  whose  ashes  kept  watch  au  inscription 
testifying  to  his  virtues  and  devotion,  —  old  autographs, 
—  for  the  Black  Man  was  the  original  autograph  col- 
lector. 

But  these,  no  doubt,  were  foolish  stories,  conceived 
and  propagated  in  chimney-corners,  while  yet  there  were 
chimney-corners  and  firesides,  and  smoky  flues.  There 
was  no  truth  in  such  things,  I  am  sure ;  the  Black  Man 
had  changed  his  tactics,  and  knew  better  than  to  lure 
the  human  soul  thus  to  come  to  him  with  his  musty 
autograph-book.  So  Septimius  fought  with  his  difficulty 
by  himself,  as  many  a  beginner  in  science  has  done 
before  him ;  and  to  his  efforts  in  this  way  are  popularly 
attributed  many  herb-drinks,  and  some  kinds  of  spruce- 
beer,  and  nostrums  used  for  rheumatism,  sore  throat, 
and  typhus  fever ;  but  I  rather  think  they  all  came  from 
Aunt  Keziah;  or  perhaps,  like  jokes  to  Joe  Miller,  all 
sorts  of  quack  medicines,  flocking  at  large  through  the 
community,  are  assigned  to  him  or  her.  The  people 
have  a  little  mistaken  the  character  and  purpose  of  poor 
Septimius,  and  remember  him  as  a  quack  doctor,  instead 
of  a  seeker  for  a  secret,  not  the  less  sublime  and  ele- 
vating because  it  happened  to  be  unattainable. 

I  know  not  through  what  medium  or  by  what  means, 
but  it  got  noised  abroad  that  Septimius  was  engaged  in 
some  mysterious  work;  and,  indeed,  his  seclusion,  his 
absorption,  his  indifference  to  all  that  was  going  on  in 
that  weary  time  of  war,  looked  strange  enough  to  indi- 
cate that  it  must  be  some  most  important  business  that 
engrossed  him.  On  the  few  occasions  when  he  came  out 
from  his  immediate  haunts  into  the  village,  he  had  a 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  169 

strange,  owl-like  appearance,  uncombed,  uubrushed,  his 
Lair  long  and  tangled ;  his  face,  they  said,  darkened  with 
smoke ;  his  cheeks  pale ;  the  indentation  of  his  brow 
deeper  than  ever  before ;  an  earnest,  haggard,  sulking 
look ;  and  so  he  went  hastily  along  the  village  street, 
feeling  as  if  all  eyes  might  find  out  what  he  had  iu 
his  mind  from  his  appearance ;  taking  by-ways  where 
they  were  to  be  found,  going  long  distances  through 
woods  and  fields,  rather  than  short  ones  where  the  way 
lay  through  the  frequented  haunts  of  men.  For  he 
shunned  the  glances  of  his  fellow-men,  probably  because 
he  had  learnt  to  consider  them  not  as  fellows,  because  he 
was  seeking  to  withdraw  himself  from  the  common  bond 
and  destiny,  —  because  he  felt,  too,  that  on  that  account 
his  fellow-men  would  consider  him  as  a  traitor,  an  en- 
emy, one  who  had  deserted  their  cause,  and  tried  to  with- 
draw his  feeble  shoulder  from  under  that  great  burden 
of  death  which  is  imposed  on  all  men  to  bear,  and  which, 
if  one  could  escape,  each  other  would  feel  his  load  pro- 
portionably  heavier.  With  these  beings  of  a  moment 
he  had  no  longer  any  common  cause  ;  they  must  go  their 
separate  ways,  yet  apparently  the  same,  —  they  on  the 
broad,  dusty,  beaten  path,  that  seemed  always  full,  but 
from  which  continually  they  so  strangely  vanished  into 
invisibility,  no  one  knowing,  nor  long  inquiring,  what 
had  become  of  them ;  he  on  his  lonely  path,  where  he 
should  tread  secure,  with  no  trouble  but  the  loneliness 
which  would  be  none  to  him.  Tor  a  little  while  he 
would  seem  to  keep  them  company,  but  soon  they  would 
all  drop  away,  the  minister,  his  accustomed  townspeople, 
Robert  Hagburu,  Rose,  Sybil  Dacy,  —  all  leaving  him  iu 


170  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

blessed  unknownness  to  adopt  new  temporary  relations, 
and  take  a  new  course. 

Sometimes,  however,  the  prospect  a  little  chilled  him. 
Could  he  give  them  all  up,  —  the  sweet  sister ;  the  friend 
of  his  childhood  ;  the  grave  instructor  of  his  youth  ;  the 
homely,  life-known  faces  ?  Yes ;  there  were  such  rich 
possibilities  in  the  future :  for  he  would  seek  out  the 
noblest  minds,  the  deepest  hearts  in  every  age,  and  be 
the  friend  of  human  time.  Only  it  might  be  sweet  to 
have  one  unchangeable  companion  ;  for,  unless  he  strung 
the  pearls  and  diamonds  of  life  upon  one  unbroken  affec- 
tion, he  sometimes  thought  that  his  life  would  have  noth- 
ing to  give  it  unity  and  identity ;  and  so  the  longest  life 
would  be  but  an  aggregate  of  insulated  fragments,  which 
would  have  no  relation  to  one  another.  And  so  it  would 
not  be  one  life,  but  many  unconnected  ones.  Unless  he 
could  look  into  the  same  eyes,  through  the  mornings  of 
future  time,  opening  and  blessing  him  with  the  fresh 
gleam  of  love  and  joy ;  unless  the  same  sweet  voice  could 
melt  his  thoughts  together ;  unless  some  sympathy  of  a 
life  side  by  side  with  his  could  knit  them  into  one ;  look- 
ing back  upon  the  same  things,  looking  forward  to  the 
same ;  the  long,  thin  thread  of  an  individual  life,  stretch- 
ing onward  and  onward,  would  cease  to  be  visible,  cease 
to  be  felt,  cease,  by  and  by,  to  have  any  real  bigness  in 
proportion  to  its  length,  and  so  be  virtually  non-existent, 
except  in  the  mere  inconsiderable  Now.  If  a  group  of 
chosen  friends,  chosen  out  of  all  the  world  for  their  adapt- 
edness,  could  go  on  in  endless  life  together,  keeping 
themselves  mutually  warm  on  the  high,  desolate  way, 
then  none  of  them  need  ever  sigh  to  be  comforted  in  the 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  171 

pitiable  snugness  of  the  grave.  If  one  especial  soul  might 
be  his  companion,  then  how  complete  the  fence  of  mutual 
arms,  the  warmth  of  close-pressing  breast  to  breast ! 
Might  there  be  one !  0,  Sybil  Dacy  ! 

Perhaps  it  could  not  be.  Who  but  himself  could  un- 
dergo that  great  trial,  and  hardship,  and  self-denial,  and 
firm  purpose,  never  wavering,  never  sinking  for  a  mo- 
ment, keeping  his  grasp  on  life  like  one  who  holds  up  by 
main  force  a  sinking  and  drowning  friend  ?  —  how  could 
a  woman  do  it !  He  must  then  give  up  the  thought. 
There  was  a  choice,  —  friendship,  and  the  love  of  woman, 

—  the  long  life  of  immortality.      There  was  something 
heroic  and  ennobling  in  choosing  the  latter.     And  so  he 
walked  witli  the  mysterious  girl  on  the  hill-top,  and  sat 
down  beside  her  011  the  grave,  which  still  ceased  not  to 
redden,  portentously  beautiful,  with  that  unnatural  flower, 

—  and  they  talked  together ;  and  Septirnius  looked  on  her 
weird  beauty,  and  often  said  to  himself,  "  This,  too,  will 
pass  away ;  she  is  not  capable  of  what  1  am,  she  is  a  wo- 
man.    It  must  be  a  manly  and  courageous  and  forcible 
spirit,  vastly  rich  in  all  three  particulars,  that  has  strength 
enough  to  live !     Ah,  is  it  surely  so  r1     There  is  such  a 
dark  sympathy  between  us,  she  knows  me  so  well,  she 
touches  my  inmost  so  at  unawares,  that  I  could  almost 
think  I  had  a  companion  here.    Perhaps  not  so  soon.   At 
the  end  of  centuries  I  might  wed  one  ;  not  now." 

But  once  he  said  to  Sybil  Dacy,  "Ah,  how  sweet  it 
would  be  —  sweet  for  me,  at  least  —  if  this  intercourse 
might  last  forever !  " 

"  That  is  an  awful  idea  that  you  present,"  said  Sybil, 
with  a  hardly  perceptible,  involuntary  shudder;  "always 


172  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

on  this  bill-top,  always  passing  and  repassiug  this  little 
hillock ;  always  smelling  these  flowers  !  I  always  looking 
at  this  deep  chasm  in  your  brow ;  you  always  seeing  my 
bloodless  cheek !  —  doing  this  till  these  trees  crumble 
away,  till  perhaps  a  new  forest  grew  up  wherever  this 
white  race  had  planted,  and  a  race  of  savages  again  pos- 
sess the  soil.  I  should  not  like  it.  My  mission  here  is 
but  for  a  short  time,  and  will  soon  be  accomplished,  and 
then  I  go." 

"  You  do  not  rightly  estimate  the  way  in  which  the 
long  time  might  be  spent,"  said  Septimius.  "  We  would 
find  out  a  thousand  uses  of  this  world,  uses  and  enjoy- 
ments which  now  men  never  dream  of,  because  the  world 
is  just  held  to  their  mouths,  and  then  snatched  away 
again,  before  they  have  time  hardly  to  taste  it,  instead  of 
becoming  acquainted  with  the  deliciousuess  of  this  great 
world-fruit.  But  you  speak  of  a  mission,  and  as  if  you 
were  now  in  performance  of  it.  Will  you  not  tell  me 
what  it  is  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Sybil  Dacy,  smiling  on  him.  "  But  one 
day  you  shall  know  what  it  is,  —  none  sooner  nor  better 
than  you,  —  so  much  I  promise  you." 

"  Are  we  friends  ?  "  asked  Septimius,  somewhat  puz- 
zled by  her  look. 

"  We  have  an  intimate  relation  to  one  another,"  replied 
Sybil. 

"  And  what  is  it  ?  "  demanded  Septimius. 

"That  will  appear  hereafter,"  answered  Sybil,  again 
smiling  on  him. 

He  knew  not  what  to  make  of  this,  nor  whether  to  be 
exalted  or  depressed ;  but,  at  all  events,  there  seemed  to 


SEPTIM1US    f  ELTON.  173 

be  an  accordance,  a  striking  together,  a  mutual  toucli  of 
tlicir  two  natures,  as  if,  somehow  or  other,  they  were  per- 
forming the  same  part  of  solemn  music ;  so  that  he  felt 
his  soul  thrill,  and  at  the  same  time  shudder.  Some  sort 
of  sympathy  there  surely  was,  but  of  what  nature  he 
could  not  tell ;  though  often  he  was  impelled  to  ask  him- 
self the  same  question  he  asked  Sybil,  "  Are  we  friends  ?  " 
because  of  a  sudden  shock  and  repulsion  that  came  be- 
tween them,  and  passed  away  in  a  moment ;  and  there 
would  be  Sybil,  smiling  askance  on  him. 

And  then  he  toiled  away  again  at  his  chemical  pur- 
suits ;  tried  to  mingle  things  harmoniously  that  appar- 
ently were  not  born  to  be  mingled ;  discovering  a  science 
for  himself,  and  mixing  it  up  with  absurdities  that  other 
chemists  had  long  ago  flung  aside  ;  but  still  there  would 
be  that  turbid  aspect,  still  that  lack  of  fragrance,  still 
that  want  of  the  peculiar  temperature,  that  was  an- 
nounced as  the  test  of  the  matter.  Over  and  over 
again,  he  set  the  crystal  vase  in  the  sun,  and  let  it 
stay  there  the  appointed  time,  hoping  that  it  would 
digest  in  such  a  manner  as  to  bring  about  the  desired 
result. 

One  day,  as  it  happened,  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  silver 
key  which  he  had  taken  from  the  breast  of  the  dead  young 
man,  and  he  thought  within  himself  that  this  might  have 
something  to  do  with  the  seemingly  unattainable  success 
of  his  pursuit.  He  remembered,  for  the  first  time,  the 
grim  doctor's  emphatic  injunction  to  search  for  the  little 
iron-bound  box  of  which  he  had  spoken,  and  which  had 
come  down  with  such  legends  attached  to  it;  as,  for 
instance,  that  it  held  the  Devil's  bond  with  his  great- 


174  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

great-grandfather,  now  cancelled  by  the  surrender  of  the 
latter's  soul ;  that  it  held  the  golden  key  of  Paradise ; 
that  it  was  full  of  old  gold,  or  of  the  dry  leaves  of  a 
hundred  years  ago;  that  it  had  a  familiar  friend  in  it, 
who  would  be  exorcised  by  the  turning  of  the  lock,  but 
would  otherwise  remain  a  prisoner  till  the  solid  oak  of 
the  box  mouldered,  or  the  iron  rusted  away ;  so  thaf 
between  fear  and  the  loss  of  the  key,  this  curious  old 
box  had  remained  unopened,  till  itself  was  lost. 

But  now  Septimius,  putting  together  what  Aunt  Ke- 
ziah  had  said  in  her  dying  moments,  and  what  Doctor 
Portsoaken  had  insisted  upon,  suddenly  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  possession  of  the  old  iron  box  might 
be  of  the  greatest  importance  to  him.  So  he  set  himself 
at  once  to  think  where  he  had  last  seen  it.  Aunt  Ke- 
ziah,  of  course,  had  put  it  away  in  some  safe  place  or 
other,  either  in  cellar  or  garret,  no  doubt ;  so  Septim- 
ius, in  the  intervals  of  his  other  occupations,  devoted 
several  days  to  the  search  ;  and  not  to  weary  the  reader 
with  the  particulars  of  the  quest  for  an  old  box,  suffice 
it  to  say  that  he  at  last  found  it,  amongst  various  other 
antique  rubbish,  in  a  corner  of  the  garret. 

It  was  a  very  rusty  old  thing,  not  more  than  a  foot  in 
length,  and  half  as  much  in  height  and  breadth;  but 
most  ponderously  iron-bound,  with  bars,  and  corners, 
and  all  sorts  of  fortification ;  looking  very  much  like  an 
ancient  alms-box,  such  as  are  to  be  seen  in  the  older 
rural  churches  of  England,  and  which  seem  to  intimate 
great  distrust  of  those  to  whom  the  funds  are  com- 
mitted. Indeed,  there  might  be  a  shrewd  suspicion  that 
some  ancient  church  beadle  among  Septimius's  forefa- 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  175 

there,  when  emigrating  from  England,  had  taken  the 
opportunity  of  bringing  the  poor-box  along  with  him. 
On  looking  close,  too,  there  were  rude  embellishments  on 
the  lid  and  sides  of  the  box  in  long-rusted  steel,  designs 
such  as  the  Middle  Ages  were  rich  in ;  a  representation 
of  Adam  and  Eve,  or  of  Satan  and  a  soul,  nobody  could 
tell  which ;  but,  at  any  rate,  an  illustration  of  great  value 
and  interest.  Septimius  looked  at  this  ugly,  rusty,  pon- 
derous old  box,  so  worn  and  battered  with  time,  and  recol- 
lected with  a  scornful  smile  the  legends  of  which  it  was 
the  object ;  all  of  which  he  despised  and  discredited,  just 
as  much  as  he  did  that  story  in  the  "  Arabian  Nights," 
where  a  demon  comes  out  of  a  copper  vase,  in  a  cloud  of 
smoke  that  covers  the  sea-shore ;  for  he  was  singularly 
invulnerable  to  all  modes  of  superstition,  all  nonsense,  ex- 
cept his  own.  But  that  one  mode  was  ever  in  full  force 
and  operation  with  him.  He  felt  strongly  convinced  that 
inside  the  old  box  was  something  that  appertained  to  his 
destiny  ;  the  key  that  he  had  taken  from  the  dead  man's 
breast,  had  that  come  down  through  time,  and  across  the 
sea,  and  had  a  man  died  to  bring  and  deliver  it  to  him, 
merely  for  nothing  ?  It  could  not  be. 

He  looked  at  the  old,  rusty,  elaborated  lock  of  the 
little  receptacle.  It  was  much  flourished  about  with 
what  was.  once  polished  steel ;  and  certainly,  when  thus 
polished,  and  the  steel  bright  with  which  it  was  hooped, 
defended,  and  inlaid,  it  must  have  been  a  thing  fit  to 
appear  in  any  cabinet ;  though  now  the  oak  was  worm- 
eaten  as  an  old  cofim,  and  the  rust  of  the  iron  came  off 
red  on  Septimius's  fingers,  after  he  had  been  fumbling 
at  it.  He  looked  at  the  curious  old  silver  key  too,  and 


176  SEPTIM1US    FELTON. 

fancied  that  lie  discovered  in  its  elaborate  handle  some 
likeness  to  the  ornaments  about  the  box ;  at  any  rate, 
this  he  determined  was  the  key  of  fate,  and  he  was  just 
applying  it  to  the  lock,  when  somebody  tapped  famil- 
iarly at  the  door,  having  opened  the  outer  one,  and 
stepped  in  with  a  manly  stride.  Septimius,  inwardly 
blaspheming,  as  secluded  men  are  apt  to  do  when  any 
interruption  comes,  and  especially  when  it  comes  at  some 
critical  moment  of  projection,  left  the  box  as  yet  un- 
broached,  and  said,  "  Come  in." 

The  door  opened,  and  Robert  Hagburn  entered ;  look- 
ing  so  tall  and  stately,  that  Septimius  hardly  knew  him 
for  the  youth  with  whom  he  had  grown  up  familiarly. 
He  had  on  the  Revolutionary  dress  of  buff  and  blue,  with 
decorations  that  to  the  initiated  eye  denoted  him  an 
officer,  and  certainly  there  was  a  kind  of  authority  in 
his  look  and  manner,  indicating  that  heavy  responsi- 
bilities, critical  moments,  had  educated  him,  and  turned 
the  ploughboy  into  a  man. 

"  Is  it  you  ?  "  exclaimed  Septimius.  "  I  scarcely 
knew  you.  How  war  has  altered  you  !  " 

"  And  I  may  say,  Is  it  you  ?  for  you  are  much  altered 
likewise,  my  old  friend.  Study  wears  upon  you  terribly. 
You  will  be  an  old  man,  at  this  rate,  before  you  know 
you  are  a  young  one.  You  will  kill  yourself,  as  sure  as 
a  gun ! " 

"Do  you  think  so?"  said  Septimius,  rather  startled, 
for  the  queer  absurdity  of  the  position  struck  him,  if  he 
should  so  exhaust  and  wear  himself  as  to  die,  just  at  the 
moment  when  he  should  have  found  out  the  secret  of 
everlasting  life.  "  But  though  I  look  pale,  I  am  very 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  177 

vigorous.  Judging  from  that  scar,  slanting  down  from 
your  temple,  you  have  been  nearer  death  than  you  now 
think  me,  though  in  another  way." 

"  Yes,"  said  Robert  Hagburn ;  "  but  in  hot  blood,  and 
for  a  good  cause,  who  cares  for  death  ?  And  yet  I  love 
life ;  none  better,  while  it  lasts,  and  I  love  it  in  all  its 
looks  and  turns  and  surprises ;  —  there  is  so  much  to  be 
got  out  of  it,  in  spite  of  all  that  people  say.  Youth  is 
sweet,  with  its  fiery  enterprise,  and  I  suppose  mature 
manhood  will  be  just  as  much  so,  though  in  a  calmer 
way,  and  age,  quieter  still,  will  have  its  own  merits  ;  — 
the  thing  is  only  to  do  with  life  what  we  ought,  and  what 
is  suited  to  each  of  its  stages  ;  do  all,  enjoy  all,  —  and  I 
suppose  these  two  rules  amount  to  the  same  thing.  Only 
catch  real  earnest  hold  of  life,  not  play  with  it.  and  not 
defer  one  part  of  it  for  the  sake  of  another,  taen  each 
part  of  life  will  do  for  us  what  was  intended.  People 
talk  of  the  hardships  of  military  service,  of  the  miseries 
that  we  undergo  fighting  for  our  country.  I  have  under- 
gone my  share,  I  believe,  —  hard  toil  in  the  wilderness, 
hunger,  extreme  weariness,  pinching  cold,  the  torture  of 
a  wound,  peril  of  death  ;  and  really  I  have  been  as  Lappy 
through  it  as  ever  I  was  at  my  mother's  cosey  fireside  of 
a  winter's  evening.  If  I  had  died,  I  doubt  not  my  last 
moments  would  have  been  happy.  There  is  no  use  of 
life,  but  just  to  find  out  what  is  fit  for  us  to  do ;  and, 
doing  it,  it  seems  to  be  little  matter  whether  ~we  live  or 
die  in  it.  God  does  not  want  our  work,  but  only  our 
willingness  to  work ;  at  least,  the  last  seems  to  answer 
all  his  purposes." 

"This  is  a  comfortable  philosophy  of  yours,"  said 
8«  L. 


178  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

Septimius,  rather  contemptuously,  and  yet  enviously. 
"  Where  did  you  get  it,  Robert  ?  " 

"  Where  ?  Nowhere  ;  it  came  to  me  on  the  march  ; 
and  though  I  cau't  say  that  I  thought  it  when  the  bul- 
lets pattered  into  the  snow  about  me,  in  those  narrow 
streets  of  Quebec,  yet,  I  suppose,  it  was  in  my  mind 
then;  for,  as  I  tell  you,  I  was  very  cheerful  and  con- 
tented. And  you,  Septimius  ?  I  never  saw  such  a  dis- 
contented, unhappy-looking  fellow  as  you  are.  You  have 
had  a  harder  time  in  peace  than  I  in  war.  You  have  not 
found  what  you  seek,  whatever  that  may  be.  Take  my 
advice.  Give  yourself  to  the  next  work  that  comes  to 
hand.  The  war  offers  place  to  all  of  us  ;  we  ought  to  be 
thankful,  —  the  most  joyous  of  all  the  generations  before 
or  after  us,  —  since  Providence  gives  us  such  good  work 
to  live  for,  or  such  a  good  opportunity  to  die.  It  is 
worth  living  for,  just  to  have  the  chance  to  die  so  well  as 
a  man  may  in  these  days.  Come,  be  a  soldier.  Be  a 
chaplain,  since  your  education  lies  that  way;  and  you 
will  find  that  nobody  in  peace  prays  so  well  as  we  do,  we 
soldiers;  and  you  shall  not  be  debarred  from  fighting, 
too  ;  if  war  is  holy  work,  a  priest  may  lawfully  do  it,  as 
well  as  pray  for  it.  Come  with  us,  my  old  friend  Sep- 
timius, be  my  comrade,  and,  whether  you  live  or  die,  you 
will  thank  me  for  getting  you  out  of  the  yellow  forlorn- 
ness  in  which  you  go  on,  neither  living  nor  dying." 

Septimius  looked  at  Robert  Hagburn  in  surprise ;  so 
much  was  he  altered  and  improved  by  this  brief  expe- 
rience of  war,  adventure,  responsibility,  which  he  had 
passed  through.  Not  less  than  the  effect  produced  on 
his  loutish,  rustic  air  and  deportment,  developing  his  fig- 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  179 

ure,  seeming  to  make  him  taller,  setting  free  the  manly 
graces  that  lurked  within  his  awkward  frame,  —  not  less 
was  the  effect  on  his  mind  and  moral  nature,  giving  free- 
dom of  ideas,  simple  perception  of  great  thoughts,  a  free 
natural  chivalry ;  so  that  the  knight,  the  Homeric  war- 
rior, the  hero,  seemed  to  be  here,  or  possible  to  be  here, 
in  the  young  New  England  rustic ;  and  all  that  history 
lias  given,  and  hearts  throbbed  and  sighed  and  gloried 
over,  of  patriotism  and  heroic  feeling  and  action,  might 
be  repeated,  perhaps,  in  the  life  and  death  of  this  familiar 
friend  and  playmate  of  his,  whom  he  had  valued  not  over 
highly,  —  Robert  Hagburn.  He  had  merely  followed 
out  his  natural  heart,  boldly  and  singly,  —  doing  the  first 
good  thing  that  came  to  hand,  —  and  here  was  a  hero. 

"You  almost  make  me  envy  you,  Robert,"  said  he, 
sighing. 

"  Then  why  not  come  with  me  ?  "  asked  Robert. 

"  Because  I  have  another  destiny,"  said  Septimius. 

"Well,  you  are  mistaken;  be  sure  of  that,"  said 
Robert.  "  This  is  not  a  generation  for  study,  and  the 
making  of  books ;  that  may  come  by  and  by.  This 
great  fight  has  need  of  all  men  to  carry  it  on,  in  one  way 
or  another ;  and  no  man  will  do  well,  even  for  himself, 
who  tries  to  avoid  his  share  in  it.  But  I  have  said  my 
say.  And  now,  Septimius,  the  war  takes  much  of  a 
man,  but  it  does  not  take  him  all,  and  what  it  leaves  is 
all  the  more  full  of  life  and  health  thereby.  I  have 
something  to  say  to  you  about  this." 

"  Say  it  then,  Robert,"  said  Septimius,  who,  having 
got  over  the  first  excitement  of  the  interview,  and  the 
sort  of  exhilaration  produced  by  the  healthful  glow  of 


180  SEPT1MIUS    FELTON. 

Robert's  spirit,  began  secretly  to  wish  that  it  might 
close,  and  to  be  permitted  to  return  to  his  solitary 
thoughts  again.  "What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"Why,  nothing,"  said  Robert,  looking  rather  con- 
fused, "  since  all  is  settled.  The  fact  is,  my  old  friend, 
as  perhaps  you  have  seen,  I  have  very  long  had  an  eye 
upon  your  sister  Rose;  yes,  from  the  time  we  went 
together  to  the  old  school-house,  where  she  now  teaches 
children  like  what  we  were  then.  The  war  took  me 
away,  and  in  good  time,  for  I  doubt  if  Rose  would  ever 
have  cared  enough  for  me  to  be  my  wife,  if  I  had  stayed 
at  home,  a  country  lout,  as  I  was  getting  to  be,  in  shirt- 
sleeves and  bare  feet.  But  now,  you  see,  I  have  come 
back,  and  this  whole  great  war,  to  her  woman's  heart,  is 
represented  in  me,  and  makes  me  heroic,  so  to  speak,  and 
strange,  and  yet  her  old  familiar  lover.  So  I  found  her 
heart  tenderer  for  me  than  it  was ;  and,  in  short,  Rose 
has  consented  to  be  my  wife,  and  we  mean  to  be  married 
in  a  week ;  my  furlough  permits  little  delay." 

"  You  surprise  me,"  said  Septimius,  who,  immersed  in 
his  own  pursuits,  had  taken  no  notice  of  the  growing  af- 
fection between  Robert  and  his  sister.  "  Do  you  think 
it  well  to  snatch  this  little  lull  that  is  allowed  you  in  the 
wild  striving  of  war  to  try  to  make  a  peaceful  home? 
Shall  you  like  to  be  summoned  from  it  soon?  Shall 
you  be  as  cheerful  among  dangers  afterwards,  when  one 
sword  may  cut  down  two  happinesses?" 

"  There  is  something  in  what  you  say,  and  I  have 
thought  of  it,"  said  Robert,  sighing.  "  But  I  can't  tell 
how  it  is;  but  there  is  something  in  this  uncertainty, 
this  peril,  this  cloud  before  us,  that  makes  it  sweeter  to 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  181      . 

\ove  and  to  be  loved  than  amid  all  seeming  quiet  and 
serenity.  Really,  I  think,  if  there  were  to  be  no  death, 
the  beauty  of  life  would  be  all  tame.  So  we  take  our 
chance,  or  our  dispensation  of  Providence,  and  are  going 
to  love,  and  to  be  married,  just  as  confidently  as  if  we 
were  sure  of  living  forever." 

"Well,  old  fellow,"  said  Septimius,  with  more  cordial- 
ity and  outgush  of  heart  than  he  had  felt  for  a  long 
while,  "  there  is  no  man  whom  I  should  be  happier  to 
call  brother.  Take  Rose,  and  all  happiness  along  with 
her.  She  is  a  good  girl,  and  not  in  the  least  like  me. 
May  you  live  out  your  threescore  years  and  ten,  and 
every  one  of  them  be  happy." 

Little  more  passed,  and  Robert  Hagburn  took  his 
leave  with  a  hearty  shake  of  Septimius's  hand,  too  con- 
scious of  his  own  happiness  to  be  quite  sensible  how 
much  the  latter  was  self-involved,  strange,  anxious,  sep- 
arated from  healthy  life  and  interests ;  and  Septimius,  as 
soon  as  Robert  had  disappeared,  locked  the  door  behind 
him,  and  proceeded  at  once  to  apply  the  silver  key  to  the 
lock  of  the  old  strong  box. 

The  lock  resisted  somewhat,  being  rusty,  as  might  well  v 
be  supposed  after  so  many  years  since  it  was  opened; 
but  it  finally  allowed  the  key  to  turn,  and  Septimius, 
with  a  good  deal  of  flutter  at  his  heart,  opened  the  lid. 
The  interior  had  a  very  different  aspect  from  that  of  the 
exterior ;  for,  whereas  the  latter  looked  so  old,  this,  hav- 
ing been  kept  from  the  air,  looked  about  as  new  as  when 
shut  up  from  light  and  air  two  centuries  ago,  less  or 
more.  It  was  lined  with  ivory,  beautifully  carved  in  fig- 
ures, according  to  the  art  which  the  mediaeval  people 


182  SEPTIMIUS    FELTOtf. 

possessed  in  great  perfection ;  and  probably  the  box  had 
been  a  lady's  jewel-casket  formerly,  and  had  glowed  with 
rich  lustre  and  bright  colors  at  former  openings.  But 
now  there  was  nothing  iu  it  of  that  kind,  —  nothing  in 
keeping  with  those  figures  carved  in  the  ivory  represent- 
ing some  mythical  subjects,  —  nothing  but  some  papers 
iu  the  bottom  of  the  box  written  over  in  an  ancient  hand, 
which  Septimius  at  once  fancied  that  he  recognized  as  that 
of  the  manuscript  and  recipe  which  he  had  found  on  the 
breast  of  the  young  soldier.  He  eagerly  seized  them, 
but  was  infinitely  disappointed  to  find  that  they  did  not 
seem  to  refer  at  all  to  the  subjects  treated  by  the  former, 
but  related  to  pedigrees  and  genealogies,  and  were  in  refer- 
ence to  an  English  family  and  some  member  of  it  who, 
two  centuries  before,  had  crossed  the  sea  to  America, 
and  who,  in  this  way,  had  sought  to  preserve  his  connec- 
tion with  his  native  stock,  so  as  to  be  able,  perhaps,  to 
prove  it  for  himself  or  his  descendants ;  and  there  was 
reference  to  documents  and  records  in  England  in  con- 
firmation of  the  genealogy.  Septimius  saw  that  this 
paper  had  been  drawn  up  by  an  ancestor  of  his  own,  the 
unfortunate  man  who  had  been  hanged  for  witchcraft ; 
but  so  earnest  had  been  his  expectation  of  something 
different,  that  he  flung  the  old  papers  down  with  bitter 
indifference. 

Then  again  he  snatched  them  up,  and  contemptuously 
read  them,  —  those  proofs  of  descent  through  genera- 
tions of  esquires  and  knights,  who  had  been  renowned 
in  war ;  and  there  seemed,  too,  to  be  running  through 
the  family  a  certain  tendency  to  letters,  for  three  were 
designated  as  of  the  colleges  of  Oxford  or  Cambridge ; 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  183 

and  against  one  there  was  the  note,  "  he  that  sold  him- 
self to  Sathan  "  ;  and  another  seemed  to  have  been  a  fol- 
lower of  Wickliffe ;  and  they  had  murdered  kings,  and 
been  beheaded,  and  banished,  and  what  not ;  so  that  the 
age-long  life  of  this  ancient  family  had  not  been  after  all 
a  happy  or  very  prosperous  one,  though  they  had  kept 
their  estate,  in  one  or  another  descendant,  since  the  Con- 
quest. It  was  not  wholly  without  interest  that  Septim- 
ius  saw  that  this  ancient  descent,  this  connection  with 
noble  families,  and  intermarriages  with  names,  some  of 
which  he  recognized  as  known  in  English  history,  all 
referred  to  his  own  family,  and  seemed  to  centre  in  him- 
self, the  last  of  a  poverty-stricken  line,  which  had  dwin- 
dled down  into  obscurity,  and  into  rustic  labor  and  hu 
ble  toil,  reviving  in  him  a  little ;  yet  how  little,  unless  he 
fulfilled  his  strange  purpose.  Was  it  not  better  worth 
his  while  to  take  this  English  position  here  so  strangely 
offered  him  ?  He  had  apparently  slain  unwittingly  the 
only  person  who  could  have  contested  his  rights,  —  the 
young  man  who  had  so  strangely  brought  him  the  hope 
of  unlimited  life  at  the  same  time  that  he  was  making 
room  for  him  among  his  forefathers.  What  a  change  in 
his  lot  would  have  been  here,  for  there  seemed  to  be 
some  pretensions  to  a  title,  too,  from  a  barony  which  was 
floating  about  and  occasionally  moving  out  of  abeyancy  ! 
"Perhaps,"  said  Septimius  to  himself,  "I  may  here- 
after think  it  worth  while  to  assert  my  claim  to  these  pos- 
sessions, to  this  position  amid  an  ancient  aristocracy,  and 
try  that  mode  of  life  for  one  generation.  Yet  there  is 
something  in  my  destiny  incompatible,  of  course,  with 
the  continued  possession  of  an  estate.  I  must  be,  of 


184  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

/     necessity,  a  wanderer  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  changing 
place  at  short  intervals,  disappearing  suddenly  and  en- 
tirely ;  else  the  foolish,  short-lived  multitude  and  mob  of 
k     mortals  will  be  enraged  with  one  who  seems  their  brother, 
\  yet  whose  countenance  will  never  be  furrowed  with  his 
\ige,  nor  his  knees  totter,  nor  his  force  be  abated ;  their 
hfctle  brevity  will  be  rebuked  by  his  age-long  endurance, 
above  whom  the  oaken  roof-tree  of  a  thousand  years 
would  crumble,  while  still  he  would  be  hale  and  strong. 
So  that  this  house,  or  any  other,  would  be  but  a  resting- 
place  of  a  day,  and  then  I  must  away  into  another  ob- 
scurity." 

With  almost  a  regret,  he  continued  to  look  over  the 
documents  until  he  reached  one  of  the  persons  recorded 
in  the  line  of  pedigree,  —  a  worthy,  apparently,  of  the 
reign  of  Elizabeth,  to  whom  was  attributed  a  title  of 
Doctor  in  Utriusque  Juris ;  and  against  his  name  was  a 
verse  of  Latin  written,  for  what  purpose  Septimius  knew 
not,  for  on  reading  it,  it  appeared  to  have  no  discov- 
erable appropriateness ;  but  suddenly  he  remembered 
the  blotted  and  imperfect  hieroglyphical  passage  in  the 
recipe.  He  thought  an  instant,  and  was  convinced  this 
was  the  full  expression  and  outwritiiig  of  that  crabbed 
little  mystery;  and  that  here  was  part  of  that  secret 
waiting  for  which  the  Age  of  Elizabeth  was  so  famous 
ajid  so  dexterous.  His  mind  had  a  flash  of  light  upon  it, 
ahd  from  that  moment  he  was  enabled  to  read  not  only 
the  recipe  but  the  rules,  and  all  the  rest  of  that  mys- 
terious document,  in  a  way  which  he  had  never  thought 
of  before ;  to  discern  that  it  was  not  to  be  taken  literally 
and  simply,  but  had  a  hidden  process  involved  in  it  that 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  185 

made  the  whole  thing  infinitely  deeper  than  he  had  hith- 
erto deemed  it  to  be.  His  brain  reeled,  he  seemed  to 
have  taken  a  draught  of  some  liquor  that  opened  infinite 
depths  before  him,  he  could  scarcely  refrain  from  giving 
a  shout  of  triumphant  exultation,  the  house  could  not 
contain  him,  he  rushed  up  to  his  hill-top,  and  there,  after 
walking  swiftly  to  and  fro,  at  length  flung  himself  on  the 
little  hillock,  and  burst  forth,  as  if  addressing  him  who 
slept  beneath. 

"  O  brother,  0  friend !  "  said  he, "  I  thank  thee  for  thy 
matchless  beneficence  to  me ;  for  all  which  I  rewarded 
thee  with  this  little  spot  on  my  hill-top.  Thou  wast 
very  good,  very  kind.  It  would  not  have  been  well  for 
thee,  a  youth  of  fiery  joys  and  passions,  loving  to  laugh, 
loving  the  lightness  and  sparkling  brilliancy  of  life,  to 
take  this  boon  to  thyself;  for,  0  brother!  I  see,  I  see, 
it  requires  a  strong  spirit,  capable  of  much  lonely  en- 
durance, able  to  be  sufficient  to  itself,  loving  not  too 
much,  dependent  on  no  sweet  ties  of  affection,  to  be  ca- 
pable of  the  mighty  trial  which  now  devolves  on  me.  I 
thank  thee,  -O  kinsman !  Yet  thou,  I  feel,  hast  the  bet- 
ter part,  who  didst  so  soon  lie  down  to  rest,  who  hast 
done  forever  with  this  troublesome  world,  which  it  is 
mine  to  contemplate  from  age  to  age,  and  to  sum  up  the 
meaning  of  it.  Thou  art  disporting  thyself  in  other 
spheres.  I  enjoy  the  high,  severe,  fearful  office  of  living 
here,  and  of  being  the  minister  of  Providence  from  one 
age  to  many  successive  ones." 

In  this  manner  he  raved,  as  never  before,  in  a  strain 
of  exalted  enthusiasm,  securely  treading  on  air,  and  some- 
times stopping  to  shout  aloud,  and  feeling  as  if  he  should 


186  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

burst  if  he  did  not  do  so ;  and  his  voice  came  back  to 
him  again  from  the  low  lulls  on  the  other  side  of  the 
broad,  level  valley,  and  out  of  the  woods  afar,  mocking 
/him ;  or  as  if  it  were  airy  spirits,  that  knew  how  it  was 
I  all  to  be,  confirming  his  cry,  saying  "  It  shall  be  so," 
I  "Thou  hast  found  it  at  last,"  "Thou  art  immortal." 
\  And  it  seemed  as  if  Nature  were  inclined  to  celebrate  his 
triumph  over  herself;  for  above  the  woods  that  crowned 
the  hill  to  the  northward,  there  were  shoots  and  streams 
of  radiance,  a  white,  a  red,  a  many-colored  lustre,  blazing 
up  high  towards  the  zenith,  dancing  up,  flitting  down, 
dancing  up  again;  so  that  it  seemed  as  if  spirits  were 
keeping  a  revel  there.  The  leaves  of  the  trees  on  the 
hillside,  all  except  the  evergreens,  had  now  mostly  fallen 
with  the  autumn ;  so  that  Septimius  was  seen  by  the  few 
passers-by,  in  the  decline  of  the  afternoon,  passing  to 
and  fro  along  his  path,  wildly  gesticulating ;  and  heard 
to  shout  so  that  the  echoes  came  from  all  directions  to 
answer  him.  After  nightfall,  too,  in  the  harvest  moon- 
light, a  shadow  was  still  seen  passing  there,  waving  its 
arms  in  shadowy  triumph ;  so,  the  next  day,  there  were 
various  goodly  stories  afloat  and  astir,  coming  out  of 
successive  mouths,  more  wondrous  at  each  birth ;  the 
simplest  form  of  the  story  being,  that  Septimius  Felton 
had  at  last  gone  raving  mad  on  the  hill-top  that  he  was 
so  fond  of  haunting ;  and  those  who  listened  to  his 
shrieks  said  that  he  was  calling  to  the  Devil ;  and  some 
said  that  by  certain  exorcisms  he  had  caused  the  appear- 
ance of  a  battle  in  the  air,  charging  squadrons,  cannon- 
flashes,  champions  encountering ;  all  of  which  foreboded 
some  real  battle  to  be  fought  with  the  enemies  of  the 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  187 

country ;  and  as  the  battle  of  Monmouth  chanced  to 
occur,  either  the  very  next  day,  or  about  that  time,  this 
was  supposed  to  be  either  caused  or  foretold  by  Sep- 
timius's  eccentricities ;  and  as  the  battle  was  not  very 
favorable  to  our  arms,  the  patriotism  of  Septimius  suf- 
fered much  in  popular  estimation. 

But  he  knew  nothing,  thought  nothing,  cared  nothing 
about  his  country,  or  his  country's  battles ;  he  was  as 
sane  as  he  had  been  for  a  year  past,  and  was  wise 
enough,  though  merely  by  instinct,  to  throw  off  some  of 
his  superfluous  excitement  by  these  wild  gestures,  with 
wild  shouts,  and  restless  activity ;  and  when  he  had 
partly  accomplished  this  he  returned  to  the  house,  and, 
late  as  it  was,  kindled  his  fire,  and  began  anew  the  pro- 
cesses of  chemistry,  now  enlightened  by  the  late  teach- 
ings. A  new  agent  seemed  to  him  to  mix  itself  up  with 
his  toil  and  to  forward  his  purpose ;  something  helped 
him  along ;  everything  became  facile  to  his  manipulation, 
clear  to  his  thought.  In  this  way  he  spent  the  night, 
and  when  at  sunrise  he  let  in  the  eastern  light  upon  his 
study,  the  thing  was  done. 

Septimius  had  achieved  it.  That  is  to  say,  he  had 
succeeded  in  amalgamating  his  materials  so  that  they 
acted  upon  one  another,  and  in  accordance ;  and  had 
produced  a  result  that  had  a  subsistence  in  itself,  and 
a  right  to  be  ;  a  something  potent  and  substantial ;  each 
ingredient  contributing  its  part  to  form  a  new  essence, 
which  was  as  real  and  individual  as  anything  it  was 
formed  from.  But  in  order  to  perfect  it,  there  was 
necessity  that  the  powers  of  nature  should  act  quietly 
upon  it  through  a  month  of  sunshine;  that  the  moon, 


188  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

too,  should  have  its  part  in  the  production ;  and  so  he 
must  wait  patiently  for  this.  Wait!  surely  he  would! 
Had  he  not  time  for  waiting  ?  Were  he  to  wait  till  old 
age,  it  would  not  be  too  much ;  for  all  future  time  would 
have  it  in  charge  to  repay  him. 

So  he  poured  the  inestimable  liquor  into  a  glass  vase, 
well  secured  from  the  air,  and  placed  it  in  the  sunshine, 
shifting  it  from  one  sunny  window  to  another,  in  order 
that  it  might  ripen ;  moving  it  gently  lest  he  should  dis- 
turb the  living  spirit  that  he  knew  to  be  in  it.  And  he 
watched  it  from  day  to  day,  watched  the  reflections  in  it, 
watched  its  lustre,  which  seemed  to  him  to  grow  greater 
day  by  day,  as  if  it  imbibed  the  sunlight  into  it.  Never 
was  there  anything  so  bright  as  this.  It  changed  its  hue, 
too,  gradually,  being  now  a  rich  purple,  now  a  crimson, 
now  a  violet,  now  a  blue ;  going  through  all  these  pris- 
matic colors  without  losing  any  of  its  brilliance,  and 
never  was  there  such  a  hue  as  the  sunlight  took  in  falling 
through  it  and  resting  on  his  floor.  And  strange  and 
beautiful  it  was,  too,  to  look  through  this  medium  at  the 
outer  world,  and  see  how  it  was  glorified  and  made  anew, 
and  did  not  look  like  the  same  world,  although  there 
were  all  its  familiar  marks.  And  then,  past  his  window, 
seen  through  this,  went  the  farmer  and  his  wife,  on  sad- 
dle and  pillion,  jogging  to  meeting-house  or  market ;  and 
the  very  dog,  -the  cow  coming  home  from  pasture,  the  old 
familiar  faces  of  his  childhood,  looked  differently.  And 
so  at  last,  at  the  end  of  the  month,  it  settled  into  a  most 
deep  and  brilliant  crimson,  as  if  it  were  the  essence  of 
the  blood  of  the  young  man  whom  he  had  slain;  the 
flower  being  now  triumphant,  it  had  given  its  own  hue  to 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  189 

the  whole  mass,  and  had  grown  brighter  every  day  ;  so 
that  it  seemed  to  have  inherent  light,  as  if  it  were  a 
planet  by  itself,  a  heart  of  crimson  fire  burning  within  it. 
And  when  this  had  been  done,  and  there  was  no  more 
change,  showing  that  the  digestion  was  perfect,  then  he 
took  it  and  placed  it  where  the  changing  moon  would  fall 
upon  it ;  and  then  again  he  watched  it,  covering  it  in 
darkness  by  day,  revealing  it  to  the  moon  by  night ;  and 
watching  it  here,  too,  through  more  changes.  And  by 
and  by  he  perceived  that  the  deep  crimson  hue  was  de- 
parting, —  not  fading ;  we  cannot  say  that,  because  of  the 
prodigious  lustre  which  still  pervaded  it,  and  was  not  less 
strong  than  ever ;  but  certainly  the  hue  became  fainter, 
now  a  rose-color,  now  fainter,  fainter  still,  till  there  was 
only  left  the  purest  whiteness  of  the  moon  itself;  a 
change  that  somewhat  disappointed  and  grieved  Septim- 
ius,  though  still  it  seemed  fit  that  the  water  of  life  should 
be  of  no  one  richness,  because  it  must  combine  all.  As 
the  absorbed  young  man  gazed  through  the  lonely  nights 
at  his  beloved  liquor,  he  fancied  sometimes  that  he  could 
see  wonderful  things  in  the  crystal  sphere  of  the  vase  ;  as 
in  Doctor  Dee's  magic  crystal  used  to  be  seen,  which 
now  lies  in  the  British  Museum;  representations,  it 
might  be,  of  things  in  the  far  past,  or  in  the  further 
future,  scenes  in  which  he  himself  was  to  act,  persons 
yet  unborn,  the  beautiful  and  the  wise,  with  whom  he 
was  to  be  associated,  palaces  and  towers,  modes  of  hith- 
erto unseen  architecture,  that  old  hall  in  England  to 
which  he  had  a  hereditary  right,  with  its  gables,  and  its 
smooth  lawn  ;  the  witch-meetings  in  which  his  ancestor 
used  to  take  part ;  Aunt  Keziah  on  her  death-bed ;  and, 


190  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

flitting  through  all,  the  shade  of  Sybil  Dacy,  eying  him 
from  secret  nooks,  or  some  remoteness,  with  her  peculiar 
mischievous  smile,  beckoning  him  into  the  sphere.  All 
such  visions  would  he  see,  and  then  become  aware  that 
he  had  been  in  a  dream,  superinduced  by  too  much 
watching,  too  intent  thought;  so  that  living  among  so 
many  dreams,  he  was  almost  afraid  that  he  should  find 
himself  waking  out  of  yet  another,  and  find  that  the  vase 
itself  and  the  liquid  it  contained  were  also  dream-stuff. 
But  no  ;  these  were  real. 

There  was  one  change  that  surprised  him,  although  he 
accepted  it  without  doubt,  and,  indeed,  it  did  imply  a 
wonderful  efficacy,  at  least  singularity,  in  the  newly 
converted  liquid.  It  grew  strangely  cool  in  temperature 
in  the  latter  part  of  his  watching  it.  It  appeared  to 
imbibe  its  coldness  from  the  cold,  chaste  moon,  until  it 
seemed  to  Septimius  that  it  was  colder  than  ice  itself ; 
the  mist  gathered  upon  the  crystal  vase  as  upon  a  tum- 
bler of  iced  water  in  a  warm  room.  Some  say  it  actu- 
ally gathered  thick  with  frost,  crystallized  into  a  thousand 
fantastic  and  beautiful  shapes,  but  this  I  do  not  know  so 
well.  Only  it  was  very  cold.  Septimius  pondered  upon 
it,  and  thought  he  saw  that  life  itself  was  cold,  indi- 
vidual in  its  being,  a  high,  pure  essence,  chastened  from 
all  heats ;  cold,  therefore,  and  therefore  invigorating. 

Thus  much,  inquiring  deeply,  and  with  painful  re- 
search into  the  liquid  which  Septimins  concocted,  have 
I  been  able  to  learn  about  it,  —  its  aspect,  its  prop- 
erties ;  and  now  I  suppose  it  to  be  quite  perfect,  and 
that  nothing  remains  but  to  put  it  to  such  use  as  he 
had  so  long  been  laboring  for.  But  this,  somehow  or 


SEPTIMIU3    FELTON.  191 

other,  he  found  in  himself  a  strong  reluctance  to  do ; 
he  paused,  as  it  were,  at  the  point  where  his  pathway 
separated  itself  from  that  of  other  men,  and  meditated 
whether  it  were  worth  while  to  giye  up  everything  that 
Providence  had  provided,  and  take  instead  only  this 
lonely  gift  of  immortal  life.  Not  that  he  ever  really  had 
any  doubt  about  it ;  no,  indeed ;  but  it  was  his  security, 
his  consciousness  that  he  held  the  bright  sphere  of  all 
futurity  in  his  hand,  that  made  him  dally  a  little,  now 
that  he  could  quaff  immortality  as  soon  as  he  liked. 
Besides,  now  that  he  looked  forward  from  the  ve 
of  mortal  destiny,  the  path  before  him  seemed  so  very 
lonely.  Might  he  not  seek  some  one  own  friend  —  one 
single  heart  —  before  he  took  the  final  step  ?  There  was 
Sybil  Dacy !  O,  what  bliss,  if  that  pale  girl  might  set 
out  with  him  on  his  journey  !  how  sweet,  how  sweet,  to 
wander  with  her  through  the  places  else  so  desolate  !  for 
he  could  but  half  see,  half  know  things,  without  her  to 
help  him.  And  perhaps  it  might  be  so.  She  must 
already  know,  or  strongly  suspect,  that  he  was  engaged 
in  some  deep,  mysterious  research ;  it  might  be  that, 
with  her  sources  of  mysterious  knowledge  among  her 
legendary  lore,  she  knew  of  this.  Then,  O,  to  think  of 
those  dreams  which  lovers  have  always  had,  when  their 
new  love  makes  the  old  earth  seem  so  happy  and  glo- 
rious a  place,  that  not  a  thousand  nor  an  endless  succes- 
sion of  years  can  exhaust  it,  —  all  those  realized  for  him 
and  her !  If  this  could  not  be,  what  should  he  do  ? 
Would  he  venture  onward  into  such  a  wintry  futurity, 
symbolized,  perhaps,  by  the  coldness  o!  tne>  crystal  gob- 
let? He  shivered  at  the  thought. 


192  SEPT1MIUS    FELTON. 

Now,  what  bad  passed  between  Septimius  and  Sybil 
Dacy  is  not  upon  record,  only  that  one  day  tliey  were 
walking  together  on  the  hill-top,  or  sitting  by  the  little 
hillock,  and  talking  earnestly  together.  Sybil's  face  was 
a  little  flushed  with  some  excitement,  and  really  she 
looked  very  beautiful;  and  Septimius's  dark  face,  too, 
had  a  solemn  triumph  in  it  that  made  him  also  beautiful ; 
so  rapt  he  was  after  all  those  watchings,  and  emaciations, 
and  the  pure,  unworldly,  self-denying  life  that  he  had 
spent.  They  talked  as  if  there  were  some  foregone  con- 
clusion on  which  they  based  what  they  said. 

"Will  you  not  be  weary  in  the  time  that  we  shall 
spend  together  ?  "  asked  he. 

"  0  no,"  said  Sybil,  smiling,  "  I  am  sure  that  it  will 
be  very  full  of  enjoyment." 

"  Yes,"  said  Septimius,  "  though  now  I  must  remould 
my  anticipations  ;  for  I  have  only  dared,  hitherto,  to  map 
out  a  solitary  existence." 

"And  how  did  you  do  that  ?  "  asked  Sybil. 

"O,  there  is  nothing  that  would  come  amiss,"  an- 
swered Septimius;  "for,  truly,  as  I  have  lived  apart 
from  men,  yet  it  is  really  not  because  I  have  no  taste  for 
whatever  humanity  includes  :  but  I  would  fain,  if  I  might, 
live  everybody's  life  at  once,  or,  since  that  may  not  be, 
each  in  succession.  I  would  try  the  life  of  power,  ruling 
men  ;  but  that  might  come  later,  after  I  had  had  long  expe- 
rience of  men,  and  had  lived  through  much  history,  and 
had  seen,  as  a  disinterested  observer,  how  men  might 
best  be  influenced  for  their  own  good.  I  would  be  a 
great  traveller  at  first ;  and  as  a  man  newly  coming  into 
possession  of  an  estate,  goes  over  it,  and  views  each  sep- 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  193 

arate  field  and  wood-lot,  and  whatever  features  it  con- 
tains, so  will  I,  whose  the  world  is,  because  I  possess  it 
forever ;  whereas  all  others  are  but  transitory  guests.  So 
will  I  wander  over  this  world  of  mine,  and  be  acquainted 
with  all  its  shores,  seas,  rivers,  mountains,  fields,  and  the 
various  peoples  who  inhabit  them,  and  to  whom  it  is  my 
purpose  to  be  a  benefactor;  for  think  not,  dear  Sybil, 
that  I  suppose  this  great  lot  of  mine  to  have  devolved 
upon  me  without  great  duties,  —  heavy  and  difficult  to 
fulfil,  though  glorious  in  their  adequate  fulfilment.  But 
for  all  this  there  will  be  time.  In  a  century  I  shall  par- 
tially have  seen  this  earth,  and  known  at  least  its  boun- 
daries, —  have  gotten  for  myself  the  outline,  to  be  filled 
tip  hereafter." 

"  And  I,  too,"  said  Sybil,  "  will  have  my  duties  and 
labors ;  for  while  you  are  wandering  about  among  men, 
I  will  go  among  women,  and  observe  and  converse  with 
them,  from  the  princess  to  the  peasant-girl ;  and  will  find 
out  what  is  the  matter,  that  woman  gets  so  large  a  share 
of  human  misery  laid  on  her  weak  shoulders.  I  will  see 
why  it  is  that,  whether  she  be  a  royal  princess,  she  has 
to  be  sacrificed  to  matters  of  state,  or  a  cottage-girl,  still 
somehow  the  thing  not  fit  for  her  is  done ;  and  whether 
there  is  or  no  some  deadly  curse  on  woman,  so  that  she 
has  nothing  to  do,  and  nothing  to  enjoy,  but  only  to  be 
wronged  by  man,  and  still  to  love  him,  aud  despise  her- 
self for  it,  —  to  be  shaky  in  her  revenges.  And  then  if, 
after  all  this  investigation,  it  turns  out  —  as  I  suspect  — 
that  woman  is  not  capable  of  being  helped,  that  there  is 
something  inherent  in  herself  that  makes  it  hopeless  to 
struggle  for  her  redemption,  then  what  shall  I  do  ?  Nay, 


194  SEPTIMIUS    PELTON. 

I  know  not,  unless  to  preach  to  the  sisterhood  that  they 
all  kill  their  female  childr^i  as  fast  as  they  are  born,  and 
then  let  the  generations  of  men  manage  as  they  can! 
Woman,  so  feeble  and  crazy  in  body,  fair  enough  some- 
times, but  full  of  infirmities ;  not  strong,  with  nerves 
prone  to  every  pain;  ailing,  full  of  little  weaknesses, 
more  contemptible  than  great  ones ! " 

"  That  would  be  a  dreary  end,  Sybil,"  said  Septimius. 
"  But  I  trust  that  we  shall  be  able  to  hush  up  this  weary 
and  perpetual  wail  of  womankind  on  easier  terms  than 
that.  Well,  dearest  Sybil,  after  we  have  spent  a  hun- 
dred years  in  examining  into  the  real  state  of  mankind, 
and  another  century  in  devising  and  putting  in  execution 
remedies  for  his  ills,  until  our-maturer  thought  has  time 
to  perfect  his  cure,  we  shall  then  have  earned  a  little 
playtime,  —  a  century  of  pastime,  in  which  we  will  search 
out  whatever  joy  can  be  had  by  thoughtful  people,  and 
that  childlike  sportiveness  which  comes  out  of  growing 
wisdom,  and  enjoyment  of  every  kind.  We  will  gather 
about  us  everything  beautiful  and  stately,  a  great  palace, 
for  we  shall  then  be  so  experienced  that  all  riches  will 
be  easy  for  us  to  get ;  with  rich  furniture,  pictures,  stat- 
ues, and  all  royal  ornaments  ;  and  side  by  side  with  this 
life  we  will  have  a  little  cottage,  and  see  which  is  the 
happiest,  for  this  has  always  been  a  dispute.  For  this 
century  we  will  neither  toil  nor  spin,  nor  think  of  any- 
thing beyond  the  day  that  is  passing  over  us.  There  is 
time  enough  to  do  all  that  we  have  to  do." 

"  A  hundred  years  of  play !  Will  not  that  be  tire- 
some ?  "  said  Sybil. 

"If  it  is,"  said  Septimius,  "the  next  century  shall 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  195 

make  up  for  it ;  for  then  we  will  contrive  deep  philoso- 
phies, take  up  one  theory  after  another,  and  find  out  its 
hollowness  and  inadequacy,  and  fling  it  aside,  the  rotten 
rubbish  that  they  all  are,  until  we  have  strewn  the  whole 
realm  of  human  thought  with  the  broken  fragments,  all 
smashed  up.  And  then,  on  this  great  mound  of  broken 
potsherds  (like  that  great  Monte  Testaccio,  which  we 
will  go  to  Rome  to  see),  we  will  build  a  system  that  shall 
stand,  and  by  which  mankind  shall  look  far  into  the  ways 
of  Providence,  and  find  practical  uses  of  the  deepest  kind 
in  what  it  has  thought  merely  speculation.  And  then, 
when  the  hundred  years  are  over,  and  this  great  work 
done,  we  will  still  be  so  free  in  mind,  that  we  shall  see 
the  emptiness  of  our  own  theory,  though  men  see  only  its 
truth.  And  so,  if  we  like  more  of  this  pastime,  then 
shall  another  and  another  century,  and  as  many  more  as 
we  like,  be  spent  in  the  same  way." 

"And  after  that  another  play-day?"  asked  Sybil 
Dacy. 

"  Yes,"  said  Septimius,  "  only  it  shall  not  be  called  so ; 
for  the  next  century  we  will  get  ourselves  made  rulers  of 
the  earth ;  and  knowing  men  so  well,  and  having  so 
wrought  our  theories  of  government  and  what  not,  we 
will  proceed  to  execute  them,  —  which  will  be  as  easy  to 
us  as  a  child's  arrangement  of  its  dolls.  We  will  smile 
superior,  to  see  what  a  facile  thing  it  is  to  make  a  people 
happy.  In  our  reign  of  a  hundred  years,  we  shall  have 
time  to  extinguish  errors,  and  make  the  world  see  the  ab- 
surdity of  them  ;  to  substitute  other  methods  of  govern- 
ment for  the  old,  bad  ones ;  to  fit  the  people  to  govern 
itself,  to  do  with  little  government,  to  do  with  none ;  and 


196  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

when  this  is  effected,  we  will  vanish  from  our  loving  peo- 
ple, and  be  seen  no  more,  but  be  reverenced  as  gods,  — 
we,  meanwhile,  being  overlooked,  and  smiling  to  our- 
selves, amid  the  very  crowd  that  is  looking  for  us." 

"  I  intend,"  said  Sybil,  making  this  wild  talk  wilder  by 
that  petulance  which  she  so  often  showed,  —  "I  intend 
to  introduce  a  new  fashion  of  dress  when  I  am  queen, 
and  that  shall  be  my  part  of  the  great  reform  which  you 
are  going  to  make.  And  for  my  crown,  I  intend  to  have 
it  of  flowers,  in  which  that  strange  crimson  one  shall  be 
the  chief;  and  when  I  vanish,  this  flower  shall  remain 
behind,  and  perhaps  they  shall  have  a  glimpse  of  me 
wearing  it  in  the  crowd.  Well,  what  next,?" 

"After  this,"  said  Septimius,  "having  seen  so  much 
of  affairs,  and  having  lived  so  many  hundred  years,  I  will 
sit  down  and  write  a  history,  such  as  histories  ought  to 
be,  and  never  have  been.  And  it  shall  be  so  wise,  aud  so 
vivid,  and  so  self-evideiitly  true,  that  people  shall  be  con- 
vinced from  it  that  there  is  some  undying  one  among 
them,  because  only  an  eye-witness  could  have  written  it, 
or  could  have  gained  so  much  wisdom  as  was  needful  for 
it." 

"  And  for  my  part  in  the  history,"  said  Sybil,  "  I  will 
record  the  various  lengths  of  women's  waists,  and  the 
fashion  of  their  sleeves.  What  next  ?  " 

"By  this  time,"  said  Septimius,  —  "how  many  hun- 
dred years  have  we  now  lived  ?  —  by  this  time,  I  shall 
have  pretty  well  prepared  myself  for  what  I  have  been 
contemplating  from  the  first.  I  will  become  a  religious 
teacher,  and  promulgate  a  faith,  and  prove  it  by  prophe- 
cies and  miracles ;  for  my  long  experience  will  enable  me 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  197 

to  do  the  first,  and  the  acquaintance  which  I  shall  have 
formed  with  the  mysteries  of  science  will  put  the  latter  at 
my  fingers'  ends.  So  I  will  be  a  prophet,  a  greater  than 
Mahomet,  and  will  put  all  man's  hopes  into  my  doctrine, 
and  make  him  good,  holy,  happy ;  and  he  shall  put  up 
his  prayers  to  his  Creator,  and  find  them  answered,  be- 
cause they  shall  be  wise,  and  accompanied  with  effort. 
This  will  be  a  great  work,  and  may  earn  me  another  rest 
and  pastime." 

[He  would  see,  in  one  age,  the  column  raised  in  memory 
of  some  great  deed  of  his  in  a  former  onel\ 

"And  what  shall  that  be  ?  "  asked  Sybil  Dacy. 

"  Why,"  said  Septimius,  looking  askance  at  her,  and 
speaking  with  a  certain  hesitation,  "  I  have  learned,  Sybil, 
that  it  is  a  weary  toil  for  a  man  to  be  always  good,  holy, 
and  upright.  In  my  life  as  a  sainted  prophet,  I  shall 
have  somewhat  too  much  of  this ;  it  will  be  enervating 
and  sickening,  and  I  shall  need  another  kind  of  diet.  So, 
in  the  next  hundred  years,  Sybil,  —  in  that  one  little 
century,  —  methiuks  I  would  fain  be  what  men  call 
wicked.  How  can  I  know  my  brethren,  unless  I  do  that 
once?  I  would  experience  all.  Imagination  is  only  a 
dream.  1  can  imagine  myself  a  murderer,  and  all  other 
modes  of  crime  ;  but  it  leaves  no  real  impression  on  the 
heart.  I  must  live  these  things." 

{The  rampant  unrestraint,  which  is  the  characteristic  of 
wicked  ness. ~\ 

"  Good,"  said  Sybil,  quietly ;  "  and  I  too." 

"  And  thou  too  !  "  exclaimed  Septimius.  "  Not  so, 
Sybil.  I  would  reserve  thee,  good  and  pure,  so  that 
there  may  be  to  me  the  means  of  redemption,  —  some 


198  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

stable  hold  in  the  moral  confusion  that  I  will  create 
around  myself,  whereby  I  shall  by  and  by  get  back  into 
order,  virtue,  and  religion.  Else  all  is  lost,  and  I  may 
become  a  devil,  and  make  my  own  hell  around  me ;  so, 
Sybil,  do  thou  be  good  forever,  and  not  fall  nor  slip  a 
moment.  Promise  me !  " 

"  We  will  consider  about  that  in  some  other  century," 
replied  Sybil,  composedly.  "  There  is  time  enough  yet. 
What  next  ?  " 

"  Nay,  this  is  enough  for  the  present,"  said  Septimius. 
"  New  vistas  will  open  themselves  before  us  continually, 
as  we  go  onward.  How  idle  to  think  that  one  little  life- 
time would  exhaust  the  world  !  After  hundreds  of  cen- 
turies, I  feel  as  if  we  might  still  be  on  the  threshold. 
There  is  the  material  world,  for  instance,  to  perfect ;  to 
draw  out  the  powers  of  nature,  so  that  man  shall,  as  it 
were,  give  life  to  all  modes  of  matter,  and  make  them  his 
ministering  servants.  Swift  ways  of  travel,  by  earth,  sea, 
and  air ;  machines  for  doing  whatever  the  hand  of  man 
now  does,  so  that  we  shall  do  all  but  put  souls  into  our 
wheel-work  and  watch-work  ;  the  modes  of  making  night 
into  day :  of  getting  control  over  the  weather  and  the 
seasons ;  the  virtues  of  plants ;  —  these  are  some  of  the 
easier  things  thou  shalt  help  me  do." 

"I  have  no  taste  for  that,"  said  Sybil,  "unless  I 
could  make  an  embroidery  worked  of  steel." 

"And  so,  Sybil,"  continued  Septimius,  pursuing  his 
strain  of  solemn  enthusiasm,  intermingled  as  it  was  with 
wild,  excursive  vagaries,  "  we  will  go  on  as  many  centu- 
ries as  we  choose.  Perhaps,  —  yet  I  think  not  so,  — per. 
haps,  however,  in  the  course  of  lengthened  time,  we  may 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  199 

find  that  the  -world  is  the  same  always,  and  mankind  the 
same,  and  all  possibilities  of  human  fortune  the  same ;  so 
that  by  and  by  we  shall  discover  that  the  same  old  scen- 
ery serves  the  world's  stage  in  all  ages,  and  that  the  story 
is  always  the  same  ;  yes,  and  the  actors  always  the  same, 
though  none  but  we  can  be  aware  of  it ;  and  that  the 
actors  and  spectators  would  grow  weary  of  it,  were  they 
not  bathed  in  forgetful  sleep,  and  so  think  themselves 
new  made  in  each  successive  lifetime.  We  may  find  that 
the  stuff  of  the  world's  drama,  and  the  passions  which 
seem  to  play  in  it,  have  a  monotony,  when  once  we  have 
tried  them ;  that  in  only  once  trying  them,  and  viewing 
them,  we  find  out  their  secret,  and  that  afterwards  the 
show  is  too  superficial  to  arrest  our  attention.  As  dram- 
atists and  novelists  repeat  their  plots,  so  does  man's 
life  repeat  itself,  and  at  length  grows  stale.  This  is 
what,  in  my  desponding  moments,  I  have  sometimes 
suspected.  What  to  do,  if  this  be  so  ?  " 

"  Nay,  that  is  a  serious  consideration,"  replied  Sybil, 
assuming  an  air  of  -mock  alarm,  "  if  you  really  think  we 
shall  be  tired  of  life,  whether  or  no." 

"  I  do  not  think  it,  Sybil,"  replied  Septimius.  "  By 
much  musing  on  this  matter,  I  have  convinced  myself 
that  man  is  not  capable  of  debarring  himself  utterly 
from  death,  since  it  is  evidently  a  remedy  for  many  evils 
that  nothing  else  would  cure.  This  means  that  we  have 
discovered  of  removing  death  to  an  indefinite  distance  is 
iSot  supernatural ;  on  the  contrary,  it  is  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world,  —  the  very  perfection  of  the  natural, 
since  it  consists  in  applying  the  powers  and  processes  of 
Nature  to  the  prolongation  of  the  existence  of  man,  her 


\ 


200  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

most  perfect  handiwork ;  and  this  could  only  be  done  by 
entire  accordance  and  co-effort  with  nature.  Therefore 
Nature  is  not  changed,  and  death  remains  as  one  of  her 
steps,  just  as  heretofore.  Therefore,  when  we  have  ex- 
hausted the  world,  whether  by  going  through  its  appar- 
ently vast  variety,  or  by  satisfying  ourselves  that  it  is  all 
a  repetition  of  one  thing,  we  will  call  death  as  the  friend 
to  introduce  us  to  something  new." 

[He  would  write  a  poem,  or  other  great  work,  inappre- 
ciable at  first,  and  live  to  see  it  famous,  —  himself  among 
his  own  posterity, ,] 

"  0,  insatiable  love  of  life ! "  exclaimed  Sybil,  looking 
at  him  with  strange  pity.  "  Canst  thou  not  conceive 
that  mortal  brain  and  heart  might  at  length  be  content 
to  sleep  ?  " 

"  Never,  Sybil ! "  replied  Septimius,  with  horror.  "My 
spirit  delights  in  the  thought  of  an  infinite  eternity. 
Does  not  thine  ?  " 

"  One  little  interval  —  a  few  centuries  only  —  of 
dreamless  sleep,"  said  Sybil,  pleadingly.  "  Cannot  you 
allow  me  that  ?  " 

"  I  fear,"  said  Septimius,  "  our  identity  would  change 
in  that  repose ;  it  would  be  a  Lethe  between  the  two 
parts  of  our  being,  and  with  such  disconnection  a  con- 
tinued life  would  be  equivalent  to  a  new  one,  and  there- 
fore valueless." 

In  such  talk,  snatching  in  the  fog  at  the  fragments  of 
philosophy,  they  continued  fitfully  ;  Septimius  calming 
down  his  enthusiasm  thus,  which  otherwise  might  have 
burst  forth  in  madness,  affrighting  the  quiet  little  village 
with  the  marvellous  things  about  which  they  mused. 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  201 

Seplimius  could  not  quite  satisfy  himself  whether  Sybil 
Dacy  shared  iu  his  belief  of  the  success  of  his  experi- 
ment, and  was  confident,  as  he  was,  that  he  held  in  his 
control  the  means  of  unlimited  life  ;  neither  was  he  sure 
that  she  loved  him,  —  loved  him  well  enough  to  under- 
take with  him  the  long  march  that  he  propounded  to 
her,  making  a  union  an  affair  of  so  vastly  more  impor- 
tance than  it  is  in  the  brief  lifetime  of  other  mortals. 
But  he  determined  to  let  her  drink  the  invaluable  draught 
along  with  him,  and  to  trust-  to  the  long  future,  and  the 
better  opportunities  that  time  would  give  him,  and  his 
outliving  all  rivals,  and  the  loneliness  which  an  undying 
life  would  throw  around  her,  without  him,  as  the  pledges 
of  his  success. 

And  now  the  happy  day  had  come  for  the  celebration 
of  Robert  Hagburn's  marriage  with  pretty  Rose  Gar- 
field,  the  brave  with  the  fair ;  and,  as  usual,  the  cere- 
mony was  to  take  place  in  the  evening,  and  at  the  house 
of  the  bride :  and  preparations  were  inade  accordingly ; 
the  wedding-cake,  which  the  bride's  own  fair  hands  had 
mingled  with  her  tender  hopes,  and  seasoned  it  with 
maiden  fears,  so  that  its  composition  was  as  much  ethe- 
real as  sensual;  and  the  neighbors  and  friends  were 
invited,  and  came  with  their  best  wishes  and  good-will. 
For  Rose  shared  not  at  all  the  distrust,  the  suspicion, 
or  whatever  it  was,  that  had  waited  on  the  true  branch 
of  Septimius's  family,  in  one  shape  or  another,  ever 
since  the  memory  of  inan;  and  all  —  except,  it  might 
be,  some  disappointed  damsels  whe  had  hoped  to  win 
Robert  Hagburn  for  themselves  —  rejoiced  at  the  ap- 
.9* 


202  SEPTIMIUS   FELTON. 

preaching  union  of  this  fit,  couple,  and  wished  them 
happiness. 

Septimius,  too,  accorded  his  gracious  consent  to  the 
union,  and  while  he  thought  within  himself  that  such  a 
brief  union  was  not  worth  the  trouble  and  feeling  which 
his  sister  and  her  lover  wasted  on  it,  still  he  wished  them 
happiness.  As  he  compared  their  brevity  with  his  long 
duration,  he  smiled  at  their  little  fancies  of  loves,  of 
which  he  seemed  to  see  the  end ;  the  flower  of  a  brief 
summer,  blooming  beautifully  enough,  and  shedding  its 
leaves,  the  fragrance  of  which  would  linger  a  little  while 
in  his  memory,  and  then  be  gone.  He  wondered  how 
far  in  the  coming  centuries  he  should  remember  this 
wedding  of  his  sister  Rose ;  perhaps  he  would  meet,  five 
hundred  years  hence,  some  descendant  of  the  marriage, 
—  a  fair  girl,  bearing  the  traits  of  his  sister's  fresh 
beauty  ;  a  young  man,  recalling  the  strength  and  manly 
comeliness  of  Robert  Hagburn,  —  and  could  claim  ac- 
quaintance and  kindred.  He  would  be  the  guardian, 
from  generation  to  generation,  of  this  race  ;  their  ever- 
reappearing  friend  at  times  of  need ;  and  meeting  them 
from  age  to  age,  would  find  traditions  of  himself  grow- 
ing poetical  in  the  lapse  of  time  ;  so  that  he  would  smile 
at  seeing  his  features  look  so  much  more  majestic  in 
their  fancies  than  in  reality.  So  all  along  their  course, 
in  the  history  of  the  family,  he  would  trace  himself,  and 
by  his  traditions  he  would  make  them  acquainted  with 
all  their  ancestors,  and  so  still  be  warmed  by  kindred 
blood. 

And  Robert  Hagburn,  full  of  the  life  of  the  moment, 
warm  with  generous  blood,  came  in  a  new  uniform, 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  203 

looking  fit  to  be  the  founder  of  a  race  who  should  look 
back  to  a  hero  sire.  He  greeted  Septimius  as  a  brother. 
The  minister,  too,  came,  of  course,  and  mingled  with 
the  throng,  with  decorous  aspect,  and  greeted  Septimius 
with  more  formality  than  he  had  been  wont ;  for  Sep- 
timius had  insensibly  withdrawn  himself  from  the  min- 
ister's intimacy,  as  he  got  deeper  and  deeper  into  the 
enthusiasm  of  his  own  cause.  Besides,  the  minister  did 
not  fail  to  see  that  his  once  devoted  scholar  had  con- 
tracted habits  of  study  into  the  secrets  of  which  he 
himself  was  not  admitted,  and  that  he  no  longer  alluded 
to  studies  for  the  ministry ;  and  he  was  inclined  to  sus- 
pect that  Septimius  had  unfortunately  allowed  infidel 
ideas  to  assail,  at  least,  if  not  to  overcome,  that  fortress  of 
firm  faith,  which  he  had  striven  to  found  and  strengthen 
in  his  mind,  —  a  misfortune  frequently  befalling  specula- 
tive and  imaginative  and  melancholic  persons,  like  Sep- 
timius, whom  the  Devil  is  all  the  time  planning  to 
assault,  because  he  feels  confident  of  having  a  traitor  iu 
the  garrison.-  The  minister  had  heard  that  this  was  the 
fashion  of  Septimius's  family,  and  that  even  the  famous 
divine,  who,  in  his  eyes,  was  the  glory  of  it,  had  had 
his  season  of  wild  infidelity  in  his  youth,  before  grace 
touched  him  ;  and  had  always  thereafter,  throughout  his 
long  and  pious  life,  been  subject  to  seasons  of  black  and 
sulphurous  despondency,  during  which  he  disbelieved  the 
faith  which,  at  other  times,  he  preached  so  powerfully. 

"  Septimius,  my  young  friend,"  said  he,  "  are  you  yet 
ready  to  be  a  preacher  of  the  truth  ?  " 

"Not  yet,  reverend  pastor,"  said  Septimius,  smiling 
at  the  thought  of  the  day  before,  that  the  career  of  a 


204  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

prophet  would  be  one  that  he  should  some  time  assume, 
"  There  will  be  time  enough  to  preach  the  truth  wheu  I 
better  know  it." 

"  You  do  not  look  as  if  you  knew  it  so  well  as  for- 
merly, instead  of  better,"  said  his  reverend  friend,  look- 
ing into  the  deep  furrows  of  his  brow,  and  into  his  wild 
and  troubled  eyes. 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  Septimius.  "  There  is  time  yet." 
These  few  words  passed  amid  the  bustle  and  murmur 
of  the  evening,  while  the  guests  were  assembling,  and  all 
were  awaiting  the  marriage  with  that  interest  which  the 
event  continually  brings  with  it,  common  as  it  is,  so  that 
nothing  but  death  is  commoner.  Everybody  congratu- 
lated the  modest  Rose,  who  looked  quiet  and  happy  ;  and 
so  she  stood  up  at  the  proper  time,  and  the  minister  mar- 
ried them  with  a  certain  fervor  and  individual  applica- 
tion, that  made  them  feel  they  were  married  indeed. 
Then  there  ensued  a  salutation  of  the  bride,  the  first  to 
kiss  her  being  the  minister,  and  then  some  respectable 
old  justices  and  farmers,  each  with  his  friendly  smile  and 
joke.  Then  went  round  the  cake  and  wine,  and  other 
good  cheer,  and  the  hereditary  jokes  with  which  brides 
used  to  be  assailed  in  those  days.  I  think,  too,  there 
was  a  dance,  thougli  how  the  couples  in  the  reel  found 
space  to  foot  it  in  the  little  room,  I  cannot  imagine  ;  at 
any  rate,  there  was  a  bright  light  out  of  the  windows, 
gleaming  across  the  road,  and  such  a  sound  of  the  babble 
of  numerous  voices  and  merriment,  that  travellers  pass- 
ing by,  on  the  lonely  Lexington  road,  wished  they  were 
of  the  party ;  and  one  or  two  of  them  stopped  and  went 
in,  and  saw  the  new-made  bride,  drank  to  her  health, 


SEPT1MIUS    FELTON.  205 

and  took  a  piece  of  the  wedding-cake  home  to  dream 
upon. 

\lt  is  to  be  observed  that  Rose  had  requested  of  her 
friend,  Sybil  Dacy,  to  act  as  one  of  her  bridesmaids,  of 
whom  she  had  only  the  modest  number  of  two ;  and  the 
strange  girl  declined,  saying  that  her  intermeddling  would 
bring  ill-fortune  to  the  marriage.} 

"  Why  do  you  talk  such  nonsense,  Sybil  ? "  asked 
Rose.  "  You  love  me,  I  am  sure,  and  wish  me  well ; 
and  your  smile,  such  as  it  is,  \vill  be  the  promise  of  pros- 
perity, and  I  wish  for  it  on  my  wedding-day." 

"  I  am  an  ill-fate,  a  sinister  demon,  Rose ;  a  thing 
that  has  sprung  out  of  a  grave ;  and  you  had  better  not 
entreat  me  to  twine  my  poison  tendrils  round  your  des- 
tinies. You  would  repent  it." 

"  O,  hush,  hush  !  "  said  Rose,  putting  her  hand  over 
her  friend's  mouth.  "  Naughty  one !  you  can  bless  me, 
if  you  will,  only  you  are  wayward." 

"  Bless  you,  then,  dearest  Rose,  and  all  happiness  on 
your  marriage !  " 

Septimius  had  been  duly  present  at  the  marriage,  and 
kissed  his  sister  with  moist  eyes,  it  is  said,  and  a  solemn 
smile,  as  he  gave  her  into  the  keeping  of  Robert  Hag- 
burn  ;  and  there  was  something  in  the  words  he  then 
used  that  afterwards  dwelt  on  her  mind,  as  if  they  had 
a  meaning  in  them  that  asked  to  be  sought  into,  and 
needed  reply. 

"  There,  Rose,"  he  had  said,  "  I  have  made  myself  ready 
for  my  destiny.  I  have  no  ties  any  more,  and  may  set 
forth  on  my  path  without  scruple." 

"  Am  I  not  your  sister  still,  Septimius  ?  "  said  she, 
shedding  a  tear  or  two. 


206  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

"  A  married  woman  is  no  sister ;  nothing  but  a  mar- 
ried woman  till  she  becomes  a  mother ;  and  then  what 
shall  I  have  to  do  with  you  ?  " 

He  spoke  with  a  certain  eagerness  to  prove  his  case, 
which  Rose  could  not  understand,  but  which  was  prob- 
ably to  justify  himself  in  severing,  as  he  was  about  to  do, 
the  link  that  connected  him  with  his  race,  and  making 
for  himself  an  exceptional  destiny,  which,  if  it  did  not 
entirely  insulate  him,  would  at  least  create  new  relations 
with  all.  There  he  stood,  poor  fellow,  looking  on  the 
mirthful  throng,  not  in  exultation,  as  might  have  been 
supposed,  but  with  a  strange  sadness  upon  him.  It 
seemed  to  him,  at  that  final  moment,  as  if  it  were  Death 
that  linked  together  all ;  yes,  and  so  gave  the  warmth  to 
all.  Wedlock  itself  seemed  a  brother  of  Death;  wed- 
lock, and  its  sweetest  hopes,  its  holy  companionship,  its 
mysteries,  and  all  that  warm  mysterious  brotherhood  that 
is  between  men;  passing  as  they  do  from  mystery  to 
mystery  in  a  little  gleam  of  light ;  that  wild,  sweet  charm 
of  uncertainty  and  temporariness,  —  how  lovely  it  made 
them  all,  how  innocent,  even  the  worst  of  them;  how 
hard  and  prosaic  was  his  own  situation  in  comparison 
to  theirs.  He  felt  a  gushing  tenderness  for  them,  as 
if  he  would  have  flung  aside  his  endless  life,  and  rushed 
among  them,  saying, — 

"  Embrace  me  !  I  am  still  one  of  you,  and  will  not 
leave  you  !  Hold  me  fast !  " 

After  this  it  was  not  particularly  observed  that  both 
Septimius  and  Sybil  Dacy  had  disappeared  from  the 
party,  which,  however,  went  on  no  less  merrily  without 
them.  In  truth,  the  habits  of  Sybil  Dacy  were  so  way- 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  207 

ward,  arifl  little  squared  by  general  rules,  that  nobody 
wondered  or  tried  to  account  for  them  ;  and  as  for  Sep- 
timius,  lie  was  such  a  studious  man,  so  little  accustomed 
to  mingle  with  his  fellow-citizens  on  any  occasion,  that 
it  was  rather  wondered  at  that  he  should  have  spent  so 
large  a  part  of  a  sociable  evening  with  them,  than  that 
he  should  now  retire. 

After  they  were  gone  the  party  received  an  unexpected 
addition,  being  no  other  than  the  excellent  Doctor  Port- 
soaken,  who  came  to  the  door,  announcing  that  he  had 
just  arrived  on  horseback  from  Boston,  and  that,  his  object 
being  to  have  an  interview  with  Sybil  Dacy,  he  had  been 
to  Robert  Hagburn's  house  in  quest  of  her ;  but,  learn- 
ing from  the  old  grandmother  that  she  was  here,  he  had 
followed. 

Not  finding  her,  he  evinced  no  alarm,  but  was  easily 
induced  to  sit  down  among  the  merry  company,  and  par- 
take of  some  brandy,  which,  with  other  liquors,  Robert 
had  provided  in  sufficient  abundance ;  and  that  being 
a  day  when  man  had  not  learned  to  fear  the  glass,  the 
doctor  found  them  all  in  a  state  of  hilarious  chat.  Tak- 
ing out  his  German  pipe,  he  joined  the  group  of  smokers 
in  the  great  chimney-corner,  and  entered  into  conversa- 
tion with  them,  laughing  and  joking,  and  mixing  up 
his  jests  with  that  mysterious  suspicion  which  gave  so 
strange  a  character  to  his  intercourse. 

"It  is  good  fortune,  Mr.  Hagburn,"  quoth  he,  "that 
brings  me  here  on  this  auspicious  day.  And  how  has 
been  my  learned  young  friend  Dr.  Septimius,  —  for  so  he 
should  be  called,  —  and  how  have  flourished  his  studies 
of  late  ?  The  scientific  world  may  look  for  great  fruits 
from  that  decoction  of  his." 


203  SBPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

"He'll  never  equal  Aunt  Keziah  for  herfcdrinks," 
said  an  old  woman,  smoking  her  pipe  in  the  corner, 
« though  I  think  likely  he  '11  make  a  good  doctor  enough 
by  and  by.  Poor  Kezzy,  she  took  a  drop  too  much  of 
St  mixture,  after  all.  I  used  to  tell  her  how  it  would 
be  •  for  Kezzy  and  I  ever  were  pretty  good  friends  once, 
before  the  Indian  in  her  came  out  so  strongly,  - 
squaw  and  the  witch,  for  she  had  them  both  in  her  blood, 
poor  yellow  Kezzy ! " 

"Yes!  had  she  indeed?"  quoth  the  doctor;      and 
I  have  heard  an  odd  story,  that  if  the  Feltons  chose  to 
go  back  to  the  old  country,  they  'd  find  a  home  and 
estate  there  ready  for  them." 

The  old  woman  mused,  and  puffed  at  her  pipe.  Ah 
ves  "  muttered  she,  at  length,  «  I  remember  to  have  heard 
something  about  that;  and  how,  if  Felton  chose  to 
strike  into  the  woods,  he'd  find  a  tribe  of  wild  Indians 
there  ready  to  take  him  for  their  sagamore,  and  conquer 
the  whites ;  and  how,  if  he  chose  to  go  to  England,  tb 
was  a  great  old  house  all  ready  for  him,  and  a  fire  burn- 
ing in  the  hall,  and  a  dinner-table  spread,  and  the  tall- 
potted  bed  ready,  with  clean  sheets,  in  the  best  chamber, 
and  a  man  waiting  at  the  gate  to  show  him  in.  Only 
there  was  a  spell  of  a  bloody  footstep  left  on  the  thresh- 
old by  the  last  that  came  out,  so  that  none  of  his  poster- 
ity could  ever  cross  it  again.  But  that  was  all  non- 
sense ! "  „ 

"  Strange  old  things  one  dreams  in  a  chimney-corner, 
quoth  the  doctor.      "  Do  you  remember   any  more  of 

"  No,  no  ;  I  'm  so  forgetful  nowadays,"  said  old  Mrs. 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  209 

Hagburn ;  "  only  it  seems  as  if  I  had  my  memories  iii  my 
pipe,  and  they  curl  up  in  smoke.  I  've  known  these  Fel- 
tons  all  along,  or  it  seems  as  if  I  had ;  for  I  'm  nigh 
ninety  years  old  now,  and  I  was  two  year  old  in  the 
witch's  time,  and  I  have  seen  a  piece  of  the  halter  that 
old  Felton  was  hung  with." 

Some  of  the  company  laughed. 

"That  must  have  been  a  curious  sight,"  quoth  the 
doctor. 

"  It  is  not  well,"  said  the  minister  seriously  to  the  doc- 
tor, "  to  stir  up  these  old  remembrances,  making  the  poor 
old  lady  appear  absurd.  I  know  not  that  she  need  to  be 
ashamed  of  showing  the  weaknesses  of  the  generation  to 
which  she  belonged  ;  but  I  do  not  like  to  see  old  age  put 
at  this  disadvantage  among  the  young." 

"  Nay,  my  good  and  reverend  sir,"  returned  the  doc- 
tor, "  I  mean  no  such  disrespect  as  you  seem  to  think. 
Forbid  it,  ye  upper  powers,  that  I  should  cast  any  ridi- 
cule on  beliefs,  —  superstitions,  do  you  call  them  ?  — 
that  are  as  worthy  of  faith,  for  aught  I  know,  as  any  that 
are  preached  in  the  pulpit.  If  the  old  lady  would  tell 
me  any  secret  of  the  old  Feltou's  science,  I  shall  treasure 
it  sacredly  ;  for  I  interpret  these  stories  about  his  mirac- 
ulous gifts  as  meaning  that  he  had  a  great  command 
over  natural  science,  the  virtues  ol  plants,  the  capacities 
of  the  human  body." 

While  these  things  were  passing,  or  before  they  passed, 
or  some  time  in  that  eventful  night,  Septimius  had  with- 
drawn to  his  study,  when  there  was  a  low  tap  heard  at 
the  door,  and,  opening  it,  Sybil  Dacy  stood  before  him. 
It  seemed  as  if  there  had  been  a  previous  arrangement 


210  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

between  them ;  for  Septimius  evinced  no  surprise,  only 
took  her  hand,  and  drew  her  in. 

"  How  cold  your  hand  is  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Nothing 
is  so  cold,  except  it  be  the  potent  medicine.  It  makes 
me  shiver." 

"  Never  mind  that,"  said  Sybil.  "  You  look  frightened 
at  me." 

"  Do  I  ?  "  said  Septin)ius.  "  No,  not  that ;  but  this 
is  such  a  crisis ;  and  methinks  it  is  not  yourself.  Your 
eyes  glare  on  me  strangely." 

"  Ah,  yes ;  and  you  are  not  frightened  at  me  ?  Well, 
I  will  try  not  to  be  frightened  at  myself.  Time  was, 
however,  when  I  should  have  been." 

She  looked  round  at  Septimius's  study,  with  its  few 
old  books,  its  implements  of  science,  crucibles,  retorts, 
and  electrical  machines ;  all  these  she  noticed  little ;  but 
on  the  table  drawn  before  the  fire,  there  was  something 
that  attracted  her  attention ;  it  was  a  vase  that  seemed 
of  crystal,  made  in  that  old  fashion  in  which  the  Vene- 
tians made  their  glasses,  —  a  most  pure  kind  of  glass, 
with  a  long  stalk,  within  which  was  a  curved  elaboration 
of  fancy-work,  wreathed  and  twisted.  This  old  glass  was 
an  heirloom  of  the  Feltons,  a  relic  that  had  come  down 
with  many  traditions,  bringing  its  frail  fabric  safely 
through  all  the  perils  of  time,  that  had  shattered  empires ; 
and,  if  space  sufficed,  I  could  tell  many  stories  of  this 
curious  vase,  which  was  said,  in  its  time,  to  have  been 
the  instrument  both  of  the  Devil's  sacrament  in  the  for- 
est, and  of  the  Christian  in  the  village  meeting-house. 
But,  at  any  rate,  it  had  been  a  part  of  the  choice  house- 
hold gear  of  one  of  Septimius's  ancestors,  and  was  en- 
graved with  his  arms,  artistically  done. 


SEPTIMIUS    PELTON.  211 

"  Is  that  the  drink  of  immortality  ?  "  said  Sybil. 

"Yes,  Sybil,"  said  Septimius.  "Do  but  touch  the 
goblet ;  see  how  cold  it  is." 

She  put  her  slender,  pallid  fingers  on  the  side  of  the 
goblet,  and  shuddered,  just  as  Septimius  did  when  he 
touched  her  hand. 

"  Why  should  it  be  so  cold  ?  "  said  she,  looking  at 
Septimius. 

"  Nay,  I  know  not,  unless  because  endless  life  goes 
round  the  circle  and  meets  death,  and  is  just  the  same 
•with  it.  O  Sybil,  it  is  a  fearful  thing  that  I  have  accom- 
plished !  Do  you  not  feel  it  so  ?  What  if  this  shiver 
should  last  us  through  eternity  ?  " 

"  Have  you  pursued  this  object  so  long,"  said  Sybil, 
"  to  have  these  fears  respecting  it  now  ?  In  that  case, 
methinks  I  could  be  bold  enough  to  drink  it  alone,  and 
look  down  upon  you,  as  I  did  so,  smiling  at  your  fear  to 
take  the  life  offered  you." 

"  I  do  not  fear,"  said  Septimius  ;  "  but  yet  I  acknowl- 
edge there  is  a  strange,  powerful  abhorrence  in  me 
towards  this  draught,  which  I  know  not  how  to  account 
for,  except  as  the  reaction,  the  revulsion  of  feeling  conse- 
quent upon  its  being  too  long  overstrained  in  one  direc- 
tion. I  cannot  help  it.  The  meannesses,  the  littlenesses, 
the  perplexities,  the  general  irksomeness  of  life,  weigh 
upon  me  strangely.  Thou  didst  refuse  to  drink  with  me. 
That  being  the  case,  methinks  I  could  break  the  jewelled 
goblet  now,  untasted,  and  choose  the  grave  as  the  wiser 
part." 

"  The  beautiful  goblet !  What  a  pity  to  break  it !  " 
said  Sybil,  with  her  characteristic  malign  and  myste- 


212  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

rious  smile.  "  You  cannot  find  it  in  your  heart  to  do 
it." 

"  I  could,  —  I  can.  So  thou  wilt  not  drink  with 
me  ?  " 

"  Do  you  know  what  you  ask  ?  "  said  Sybil.  "  I  am 
a  being  that  sprung  up,  like  this  flower,  out  of  a  grave ; 
or,  at  least,  I  took  root  in  a  grave,  and,  growing  there, 
have  twined  about  your  life,  uutil  you  cannot  possibly 
escape  from  me.  Ah,  Septimius !  you  know  me  not. 
You  know  not  what  is  in  my  heart  towards  you.  Do 
you  remember  this  broken  miniature  ?  would  you  wish  to 
see  the  features  that  were  destroyed  when  that  bullet 
passed  ?  Then  look  at  mine ! " 

"  Sybil !  what  do  you  tell  me?  Was  it  you  — were 
they  your  features  —  which  that  young  soldier  kissed  as 
he  lay  dying  ?  " 

"They  were,"  said  Sybil.  "I  loved  him,  and  gave 
him  that  miniature,  and  the  face  they  represented.  I 
had  given  him  all,  and  you  slew  him." 

"  Then  you  hate  me,"  whispered  Septimius. 

"Do  you  call  it  hatred?"  asked  Sybil,  smiling. 
"  Have  I  not  aided  you,  thought  with  you,  encouraged 
you,  heard  all  your  wild  ravings  when  you  dared  to  tell 
no  one  else  ?  kept  up  your  hopes ;  suggested ;  helped 
you  with  my  legendary  lore  to  useful  hints  ;  helped  you, 
also,  in  other  ways,  which  you  do  not  suspect  ?  And 
now  you  ask  me  if  I  hate  you.  Does  this  look  like 
it?" 

"  No,"  said  Septimius.  "  And  yet,  since  first  I  knew 
you,  there  has  been  something  whispering  me  of  harm, 
as  if  I  sat  near  some  mischief.  There  is  in  me  the  wild, 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  213 

natural  blood  of  the  Indian,  the  instinctive,  the  animal 
nature,  which  has  ways  of  warning  that  civilized  life 
polishes  away  and  cuts  out  j  and  so,  Sybil,  never  did  I 
approach  you,  but  there  were  reluctances,  drawings  back, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  a  strong  impulse  to  come  closest 
to  you  ;  and  to  that  I  yielded.  But  why,  then,  knowing 
that  in  this  grave  lay  the  man  you  loved,  laid  there  by 
my  hand,  —  why  did  you  aid  me  in  an  object  which  you 
must  have  seen  was  the  breath  of  my  life  P  " 

"  Ah,  my  friend,  —  my  enemy,  if  you  will  have  it  so, 
—  are  you  yet  to  learn  that  the  wish  of  a  man's  inmost 
heart  is  oftenest  that  by  which  he  is  ruined  and  made 
miserable?  But  listen  to  me,  Septimius.  No  matter 
for  my  earlier  life ;  there  is  no  reason  why  I  should  tell 
you  the  story,  and  confess  to  you  its  weakness,  its  shame. 
It  may  be,  I  had  more  cause  to  hate  the  tenant  of  that 
grave,  than  to  hate  you  who  unconsciously  avenged  my 
cause ;  nevertheless,  I  came  here  in  hatred,  and  desire  of 
revenge,  meaning  to  lie  in  wait,  and  turn  your  dearest 
desire  against  you,  to  eat  into  your  life,  and  distil  poison 
into  it,  I  sitting  on  this  grave,  and  drawing  fresh  hatred 
from  it;  and  at  last,  in  the  hour  of  your  triumph,  I 
meant  to  make  the  triumph  mine." 

"  Is  this  still  so  ?  "  asked  Septimius,  with  pale  lips ; 
"  or  did  your  fell  purpose  change  ?  " 

"  Septimius,  I  am  weak,  —  a  weak,  weak  girl,  —  only 
a  girl,  Septimius ;  only  eighteen  yet,"  exclaimed  Sybil. 
"  It  is  young,  is  it  not  ?  I  might  be  forgiven  much. 
You  know  not  how  bitter  my  purpose  was  to  you.  But 
look,  Septimius,  —  could  it  be  worse  than  this  ?  Hush, 
be  still !  Do  not  stir ! " 


214  SEPTIMIUS   FELTON. 

She  lifted  the  beautiful  goblet  from  the  table,  put  it  to 
her  lips,  and  drank  a  deep  draught  from  it ;  then,  smiling 
mockingly,  she  held  it  towards  him. 

"  See ;  I  have  made  myself  immortal  before  you.  Will 
you  drink  ?  " 

He  eagerly  held  out  his  hand  to  receive  the  goblet,  bu 
Sybil,  holding  it  beyond  his  reach  a  moment,  deliberately 
let  it  fall  upon  the  hearth,  where  it  shivered  into  frag- 
ments, and  the  bright,  cold  water  of  immortality  was  all 
spilt,  shedding  its  strange  fragrance  around. 

"  Sybil,  what  have  you  done  ?  "  cried  Septimius  in  rage 
and  horror. 

"  Be  quiet !  See  what  sort  of  immortality  1 1  by  it, 
—  then,  if  you  like,  distil  your  drink  of  eternity  again, 
and  quaff  it." 

"  It  is  too  late,  Sybil ;  it  was  a  happiness  that  may 
never  come  again  in  a  lifetime.  I  shall  perish  as  a  dog 
does.  It  is  too  late  ! " 

«  Septimius,"  said  Sybil,  who  looked  strangely  beauti- 
ful, as  if  the  drink,  giving  her  immortal  life,  had  likewise 
the  potency  to  give  immortal  beauty  answering  to  it. 
"  Listen  to  me.  You  have  not  learned  all  the  secrets 
that  lay  in  those  old  legends,  about  which  we  have  talked 
so  much.  There  were  two  recipes,  discovered  or  learned 
by  the  art  of  the  studious  old  Gaspar  Pelton.  One  was 
said  to  be  that  secret  of  immortal  life  which  so  many  old 
sages  sought  for,  and  which  some  were  said  to  h; 
found;  though,  if  that  were  the  case,  it  is  strange  some 
of  them  have  not  lived  till  our  day.  Its  essence  lay  in 
a  certain  rare  flower,  which,  mingled  properly  with  othe 
ingredients  of  great  potency  in  themselves,  though  still 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  215 

lacking  the  crowning  virtue  till  the  flower  was  supplied, 
produced  the  drink  of  immortality." 

"  Yes,  and  I  had  the  flower,  which  I  found  in  a  grave," 
said  Septimius,  "  and  distilled  the  drink  which  you  have 
spilt." 

"  You  had  a  flower  or  what  you  called  a  flower,"  said 
the  girl.  "  But,  Septimius,  there  was  yet  another  drink, 
in  which  the  same  potent  ingredients  were  used  ;  all  but 
the  last.  In  this,  instead  of  the  beautiful  flower,  was 
mingled  the  semblance  of  a  flower,  but  really  a  baneful 
growth  out  of  a  grave.  This  I  sowed  there,  and  it  con- 
verted the  drink  into  a  poison,  famous  in  old  science, — 
a  poison  which  the  Borgias  used,  and  Mary  de  Medicis, — 
and  which  has  brought  to  death  many  a  famous  person, 
when  it  was  desirable  to  his  enemies.  This  is  the  drink 
I  helped  you  to  distil.  It  brings  on  death  with  pleasant 
and  delightful  thrills  of  the  nerves.  O  Septimius,  Sep- 
timius, it  is  worth  while  to  die,  to  be  so  blest,  so  exhil- 
arated as  I  am  now." 

"  Good  God,  Sybil,  is  this  possible  P  " 

"Even  so,  Septimius.  I  was  helped  by  that  old 
physician,  Doctor  Portsoaken,  who,  with  some  private 
purpose  of  his  own,  taught  me  what  to  do ;  for  he  was 
skilled  in  all  the  mysteries  of  those  old  physicians,  and 
knew  that  their  poisons  at  least  were  efficacious,  what- 
ever their  drinks  of  immortality  might  be.  But  the  end 
has  not  turned  out  as  I  meant.  A  girl's  fancy  is  so 
shifting,  Septimius.  I  thought  I  loved  that  youth  in  the 
grave  yonder ;  but  it  was  you  I  loved,  —  and  I  am 
dying.  Forgive  me  for  my  evil  purposes,  for  I  am 
dying." 


216  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

"Wliy  hast  thou  spilt  the  drink?"  said  Septimius, 
bending  his  dark  brows  upon  her,  and  frowning  over 
her.  "  We  might  have  died  together." 

"No,  live,  Septimius,"  said  the  girl,  whose  face  ap- 
peared to  grow  bright  and  joyous,  as  if  the  drink  of 
death  exhilarated  her  like  an  intoxicating  fluid.  "I 
would  not  let  you  have  it,  not  one  drop.  But  to  think," 
and  here  she  laughed,  "  what  a  penance,  —  what  months 
of  wearisome  labor  thou  hast  had, —  and  what  thoughts, 
what  dreams,  and  how  I  laughed  in  my  sleeve  at  them 
all  the  time !  Ha,  ha,  ha !  Then  thou  didst  plan  out 
future  ages,  and  talk  poetry  and  prose  to  me.  Did  I 
not  take  it  very  demurely,  and  answer  thee  in  the  same 
style  ?  and  so  thou  didst  love  me,  and  kindly  didst  wish 
to  take  me  with  thee  in  thy  immortality.  0  Septimius, 
I  should  have  liked  it  well !  Yes,  latterly,  only,  I  knew 
how  the  case  stood.  0,  how  I  surrounded  the6  with 
dreams,  and  instead  of  giving  thee  immortal  life,  so 
kneaded  up  the  little  life  allotted  thee  with  dreams  and 
vaporing  stuff,  that  thou  didst  not  really  live  «ven  that. 
Ah,  it  was  a  pleasant  pastime,  and  pleasant  is  now  the 
end  of  it.  Kiss  me,  thou  poor  Septimius,  one  kiss ! " 

[SAe  gives  the  ridiculous  aspect  to  his  scheme,  in  an 
airy  way.} 

But  as  Septimius,  who  seemed  stunned,  instinctively 
bent  forward  to  obey  her,  she  drew  back.  "  No,  there 
shall  be  no  kiss  !  There  may  a  little  poison  linger  on 
my  lips.  Farewell!  Dost  thou  mean  still  to  seek  for 
thy  liquor  of  immortality  ?  —  ah,  ah !  It  was  a  good 
jest.  We  will  laugh  at  it  when  we  meet  in  the  other 
world." 


SEPTIMIUS    PELTON.  217 

And  here  poor  Sybil  Dacy's  laugh  grew  fainter,  and 
dying  away,  she  seemed  to  die  with  it;  for  there  she  was, 
with  that  mirthful,  half-malign  expression  still  on  her 
face,  but  motionless ;  so  that  however  long  Septimius's 
life  was  likely  to  be,  whether  a  few  years  or  many  cen- 
turies, he  would  still  have  her  image  in  his  memory  so. 
And  here  she  lay  among  his  broken  hopes,  now  shattered 
as  completely  as  the  goblet  which  held  his  draught,  and 
as  incapable  of  being  formed  again. 

The  next  day,  as  Septimius  did  not  appear,  there  was 
research  for  him  on  the  part  of  Doctor  Portsoaken.  His 
room  was  found  empty,  the  bed  untouched.  Then  they 
sought  him  on  his  favorite  hill-top ;  but  neither  was  he 
found  there,  although  something  was  found  that  added 
to  the  wonder  and  alarm  of  his  disappearance.  It  was 
the  cold  form  of  Sybil  Dacy,  which  was  extended  on 
the  hillock  so  often  mentioned,  with  her  arms  thrown 
over  it ;  but,  looking  in  the  dead  face,  the  beholders 
were  astonished  to  see  a  certain  malign  and  mirthful  ex- 
pression, as  if  some  airy  part  had  been  played  out,  — 
some  surprise,  some  practical  joke  of  a  peculiarly  airy 
kind  had  burst  with  fairy  shoots  of  fire  among  the  com- 
pany. 

"  Ah,  she  is  dead  !  Poor  Sybil  Dacy !  "  exclaimed 
Doctor  Portsoaken.  "  Her  scheme,  then,  has  turned 
out  amiss." 

This  exclamation  seemed  to  imply  some  knowledge  of 

the  mystery;  and  it  so  impressed  the  auditors,  among 

whom  was  Robert  Hagburn,  that  they  thought  it  not 

inexpedient  to  have  an   investigation;   so  the  learned 

10 


218  SEPTIMITJS    FELTON. 

doctor  was  not  uncivilly  taken  into  custody  and  exam- 
ined. Several  interesting  particulars,  some  of  which 
throw  a  certain  degree  of  light  on  our  narrative,  were 
discovered.  For  instance,  that  Sybil  Dacy,  who  was  a 
niece  of  the  doctor,  had  been  beguiled  from  her  home 
and  led  over  the  sea  by  Cyril  Norton,  and  that  the 
doctor,  arriving  in  Boston  with  another  regiment,  had 
found  her  there,  after  her  lover's  death.  Here  there 
was  some  discrepancy  or  darkness  in  the  doctor's  narra- 
tive. He  appeared  to  have  consented  to,  or  instigated 
(for  it  was  not  quite  evident  how  far  his  concurrence  had 
gone)  this  poor  girl's  scheme  of  going  and  brooding  over 
her  lover's  grave,  and  living  in  close  contiguity  with  the 
man  who  had  slain  him.  The  doctor  had  not  much  to 
say  for  himself  on  this  point ;  but  there  was  found  rea- 
son to  believe  that  he  was  acting  in  the  interest  of  some 
English  claimant  of  a  great  estate  that  was  left  without 
an  apparent  heir  by  the  death  of  Cyril  Norton,  and  there 
was  even  a  suspicion  that  he,  with  his  fantastic  science 
and  antiquated  empiricism,  had  been  at  the  bottom  of 
the  scheme  of  poisoning,  which  was  so  strangely  inter- 
twined with  Septimius's  notion,  in  which  he  went  so 
nearly  crazed,  of  a  drink  of  immortality.  It  was  ob- 
servable, however,  that  the  doctor  —  such  a  humbug  in 
scientific  matters,  that  he  had  perhaps  bewildered  him- 
self—seemed to  have  a  sort  of  faith  in  the  efficacy  of 
the  recipe  which  had  so  strangely  come  to  light,  provided 
the  true  flower  could  be  discovered;  but  that  flower, 
according  to  Doctor  Portsoaken,  had  not  been  seen  on 
earth  for  many  centuries,  and  was  banished  probably 
forever.  The  flower,  or  fungus,  which  Septimius  had 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON.  219 

mistaken  for  it,  was  a  sort  of  earthly  or  devilish  coun- 
terpart of  it,  and  was  greatly  in  request  among  the 
old  poisoners  for  its  admirable  uses  in  their  art.  In 
fine,  no  tangible  evidence  being  found  against  the 
worthy  doctor,  he  was  permitted  to  depart,  and  disap- 
peared from  the  neighborhood,  to  the  scandal  of  many 
people,  unhanged;  leaving  behind  him  few  available  ef- 
fects beyond  the  web  and  empty  skin  of  an  enormous 
spider. 

As  to  Septimius,  he  returned  no  more  to  his  cottage 
by  the  wayside,  and  none  undertook  to  tell  what  had  be- 
come of  him ;  crushed  and  annihilated,  as  it  were,  by  the 
failure  of  his  magnificent  and  most  absurd  dreams.  Ru- 
mors there  have  been,  however,  at  various  times,  that 
there  had  appeared  an  American  claimant,  who  had  made 
out  his  right  to  the  great  estate  of  Smithell's  Hall,  and 
had  dwelt  there,  and  left  posterity,  and  that  in  the  subse- 
quent generation  an  ancient  baronial  title  had  been  re- 
vived in  favor  of  the  son  and  heir  of  the  American. 
Whether  this  was  our  Septimius,  I  cannot  tell;  but  I 
should  be  rather  sorry  to  believe  that  after  such  splen- 
did schemes  as  he  had  entertained,  he  should  have  been 
content  to  settle  down  into  the  fat  substance  and  reality 
of  English  life,  and  die  in  his  due  time,  and  be  buried 
like  any  other  man. 

A  few  years  ago,  while  in  England,  I  visited  Smith- 
ell's  Hall,  and  was  entertained  there,  not  knowing  at  the 
time  that  I  could  claim  its  owner  as  my  countryman  by 
descent ;  though,  as  I  now  remember,  I  was  struck  by 
the  thin,  sallow,  American  cast  of  his  face,  and  the  lithe 
slenderness  of  his  figure,  and  seem  now  (but  this  may  be 


220  SEPTIMltJS    FELTON. 

my  fancy)  to  recollect  a  certain  Indian  glitter  of  the  eye, 
and  cast  of  feature. 

As  for  the  Bloody  Footstep,  I  saw  it  with  my  own 
eyes,  and  will  venture  to  suggest  that  it  was  a  mere  nat- 
ural reddish  stain  in  the  stone,  converted  by  superstition 
into  a  Bloody  Footstep. 


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